


Cherry

by LazyBaker



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Gender Issues, Hawkins Fair, Lifeguard Billy, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Panties, Public Sex, Scoops Ahoy Steve, Spin the Bottle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2019-08-17 12:10:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16516235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyBaker/pseuds/LazyBaker
Summary: They’ve got ten minutes before Steve’s break is up and he has to go back to wishing for death with a smile.





	1. Cherry

They’ve got ten minutes before Steve’s break is up and he has to go back to wishing for death with a smile.

It’s summer. It’s a Tuesday. Billy’s shown up for every one of his shifts.

Billy says he doesn’t drive all the way to the mall _just_ for this the same way he says he doesn’t like Steve—at all—and, like, you don’t moan around a guy’s dick like Billy if you don’t like the guy the dick’s connected to just a little bit.

Steve takes it on the chin though. Billy says a lot of shit he doesn’t mean, like he _totally_ didn't cry watching _The Breakfast Club_.

Billy’s a straight up asshole, but he’s not a downright monster. Steve would know.

So Steve rolls with it. Goes on his break with a quick salute to Robin, happy to not have to paste on a _customer appropriate_ smile and wonder what the actual hell he’s doing with his life working here and maybe he should’ve taken a shot at college even if he is worthless when it comes to, you know, thinking and being smart and shit like that. It has to be better than singing the trademarked _Scoops Ahoy_ thank you song every single time someone tips.

He wakes up in the middle of the night with that song in his head. Hell isn’t the Upside Down, it’s a sailor themed dead end job in the middle of Indiana.

Billy tells him to keep the hat on. _I’ve always wanted to do it with a sailor_ , he says. Calls him _matey_. Likes to say _I’m raising the mast_ right before he’s about to suck Steve down.

Steve hates the hat. It covers his amazing hair. Makes him feel like he’s twelve dressing up for a play in the fourth grade.

Sailor puns make him shrivel up inside, quicker than usual.

He keeps the hat on.

Billy’s wrapped around Steve, proving he definitely _did_ come here just for this by the way he’s kissing Steve hard, whole body hot against him, warming Steve's ice-cream frozen self up, and rubbing at Steve’s crotch with genuine gusto.

They’re in the insides of the mall, the rooms customers aren’t allowed in where, from what Steve’s seen, no one really goes. It’s creepy. Quiet. The hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stand on end and make him paranoid and overthink everything, but it’s the only place they’ve found where they can do _this_ without someone walking in.

It’s a small room. There are a bunch of folding chairs and folding tables and nothing else. Billy has Steve crowded against the only bare wall in the room—the closed door. It’s musty and there’s no vent or anything so the air just sits and Steve can actually smell the last time they had sex in here—yesterday. And the day before that. And the entire week and, and, and—and Billy definitely comes here just for this.

He can get in Steve’s face for telling a lie _one time_ , but damn if the guy doesn’t just spew shit when he doesn’t have a dick in his mouth.

“Earth to Harrington.” Billy says and he’s pissed. Has that frown between his eyebrows that’s pretty cute. Steve’s going cross-eyed looking at him so close.

“Sorry.” Steve pecks his lips. They’re not in love. Steve doesn’t like Billy just like Billy doesn’t like him. Still, he kisses him sweetly. Feels dumb afterwards, but what’s new there?

Steve says, because Billy’s practically pouting and that should be harder to do when you got a hand wrapped around another guy’s hard on, “You’re wearing a new flavor.”

Billy glances away. Beige metal folding chairs _are_ pretty interesting. Steve licks Billy’s bottom lip, sucks on it a little to feel Billy’s breath stutter out of him.

“Bubblegum?” Steve guesses.

Billy rolls his eyes. Takes his hand out of Steve’s shorts, which isn’t exactly ideal and not what Steve was going for, but Steve can work with it. He grabs Billy by the hips and brings him in close so they’re pressed tight together. Can feel Billy’s cock next to his.

Billy clicks his tongue. “Nope.”

Steve hums. Doesn’t care all that much about Billy’s new flavor of lipgloss. Brought it up because Billy has this awful habit of getting a little shy when Steve mentions it.

He kisses him again and Billy responds this time, bites at Steve with a nip that sends shivers all up his back.

“Raspberry?”

“You wish.”

Another kiss. Then another. Then Billy’s sucking on Steve’s tongue and Steve’s managed to get his hand down the back of Billy’s jeans to palm at his ass, squeeze it, makes Billy moan into his mouth, wrap his arms around Steve’s neck to get him closer—and Steve can so totally work with this.

There’s not a whole lot to be happy about in Steve’s life right now. A job with no future and no plans to change this. An ex-girlfriend he can't avoid because this is Hawkins and, like, twelve people live here. But there is Billy’s ass and Steve really loves Billy’s ass.

Like, on a scale of asses, Billy’s is top notch. Firm with all that muscle, but just a little bit of bounce to it that Steve can get two good, amazing, life affirming handfuls. If Steve was good with words at all, he’d be writing some Anne Murray type love ballads about that Hargrove backside.

Steve pulls back just enough to whisper against Billy’s lips, “Lime?”

Billy snorts. Mockingly says, “ _Lime?_ Do I look like a prude?”

“I guess you _are_ pretty slutty.”

“Damn right.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy + lipgloss = my entire <3
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com)


	2. Strawberry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place **before** chapter 1 (Cherry).

It must say _something_ about Steve as a person that he’s jizzed on Billy’s face before ever even thinking about kissing him.

He’s always been a romantic guy, even with the girls who gave it up before the first date was over. He _likes_ the romance. Holding hands. Going on dates. Making her laugh. Picking her up and spinning her around. Being the first to say _hey_ to her in the morning. _Kissing_.

Steve fucking loves kissing girls, maybe more than the actual sex. Though, the sex is pretty awesome.

With Billy, it’s just all so different. No dates. No holding hands. The only time Steve’s made Billy laugh was when he tripped over a root after one of their _not-a-date_ meet-ups.

Steve’s not even sure if he _likes_ Billy. At all.

The guy’s kind of, really, just super obnoxious. He gets under Steve’s skin and digs his demonic claws into every sore spot Steve doesn’t want the world to know he has. If it wasn’t for his abs and the way he sucks dick, Steve would’ve noped out weeks ago.

Now that he’s thought of it though— _though_ —Steve can’t help wondering what it would be like to kiss Billy.

He’s seen how Billy kisses girls at school and the few parties Steve drags himself to these days and the _thought_ of being on the receiving end of one of those _slowing down time and with a lot of tongue_ kisses that seems to make every girl sigh and make these sweet, happy noises—

Steve can’t help but be curious. Obsessed. Like, every waking moment of his fantastically shit-filled life thinking about those lips and being tugged in by the waist and pressed against those _abs_.

Billy’s got some insane abs. And lips. And Steve’s fucked.

It’s just one of those really, annoying things you think about and can’t stop thinking about no matter how hard you try to _just stop_. Steve’s got Billy’s dick in his mouth and poking at the back of his throat and all he’s thinking is about _kissing_ that wispy, dumb mustache.

He has to look children in the eye while serving them extra-big-going-against-company-regulation scoops of strawberry ice cream and he can’t, like, be daydreaming about Billy’s mouth when he’s doing that.

Billy’s going to drive him up the wall until he either takes another go at the pit of despair and kisses Billy or Billy punches him in the face for trying and, the horrible thing of it is, _Billy isn’t even trying_. This is all on Steve’s stupid brain being so, amazingly, stupid.

Billy made it clear where his boundaries were. He has two rules he made Steve literally repeat back to him with his hand down his pants and the threat of not getting him off if he didn’t agree:

_No one knows._

_No kissing._

Having sex practically daily is apparently not enough. No. Steve has to kiss the bastard too. He is the biggest moron, not just in Hawkins, in the entire country. Just. Wow. Sometime’s he’s surprised by how dumb he can be. _Way to go, Steve. Really hitting it out of the park on this one. Mom and dad would be so proud._

With Sunday off, Steve sets out on his plan to ruin a good thing.

He doesn’t want to look as desperate and as out of his mind as he actually is or like he’s _trying_ so he grabs Dustin and Dustin gets the rest of his friends and Steve drives them all to the public pool.

There’s some convincing involved. Like, how he has his own pool and it’s not filled with a ton of other people crowding the water, and, okay, _yeah_ , but this one is _bigger_ and there are _girls_ who are wearing bikinis and _you can totally just wear your shirt in the pool, no one cares, dude_ , also, you know, his pool doesn’t come with a shirtless Billy Hargrove and a shirtless Billy Hargrove is the most important.

He doesn’t _say_ that. Dustin and his little group of nerds wouldn’t get it. You don’t appreciate abs like Billy’s until puberty’s left it’s tire tracks all over you.

And Billy made it _very clear_ what’ll happen to Steve if what they’re doing together gets out. Steve isn’t any more excited about getting murdered by Billy then he is about getting eaten by rabid monster-dogs.

Living’s not the greatest or anything right now, but dying doesn’t sound exactly fun either and at least when he’s alive he can catch new episodes of Magnum and have weird thoughts about Tom Selleck’s chest hair and Billy in Hawaiian shirts.

It’s an hour before Billy’s shift ends and he can swap with Heather and Steve can sneak off with him. Steve knows this like Billy knows his schedule, week to week, without them once talking about it. Ever.

Dustin ends up keeping his shirt on. Lucas tries to get him to take it off—Steve feels for the kid, really—they end up wrestling themselves into the deep end, making a scene that completely goes against the point to wearing a shirt in the first place with the amount of attention they get.

Billy blows his whistle at them.

Maybe it’s because they’re with Steve or he’s going soft or he kind of hopes they end up drowning, but Billy doesn’t throw them out or make them take a time-out either.

Steve spends the hour hanging out on one of the lounge chairs, keeping an eye on the kids’ shit and pointedly not staring at Billy or his abs or his arms. Refuses to make any eye contact whatsoever. Acknowledgment means death. He pretends Billy doesn’t exist and—

—lasts for all of ten minutes before he’s jumping in the pool and swimming his way to Billy. Lets Billy call him a _pretty boy shitface_ as a way of saying _hello_ and thinks Billy says it almost nicely, like they’re buddies, like he’s happy to see Steve, that he’d be totally, completely open to letting Steve kiss him.

Mostly, Steve just honestly hates how being called a _pretty boy shitface_ gives him some sort of genuine pep in his life.

—

A public pool doesn’t have some nook or corner out of the way from the _public_ where two guys can drop their swim trunks with each other. And, like, Steve’s graduated from public high school and has experienced what a boy’s locker room is like—he’s not jumping at any chance to drop to his knees on a public-anything-floor. That’s how you get an STD or a foot fungus on your balls. Steve likes his balls too much to do that to them.

He likes Billy’s balls too much to do that to him too.

So the car it is.

He tells Dustin he’ll be right back. Puts enough of an eyebrow wiggle in it for Dustin to think he might be hooking up with a girl, giving himself a little time before Dustin gets too curious for his own good or goes full worried-mom on him again.

Giving himself maybe twenty minutes. Plenty of time to be rejected for a kiss and give a quick apology handy—if Billy hasn’t knocked him out before that.

Steve waits _sort of_ near the entrance. He’s hanging out in the shade by one of the trees out front, smoke in hand and going through the list of how many ways this can go wrong and how _not even one of them_ outweighs the itch to just go for it and kiss Billy’s dumb face.

It takes a handful of minutes before Billy’s coming out the front, freshly showered and shirt on, spotting Steve with a quick, barely there nod. Their usual sign for it’s _go-time_ and Steve’s already hard as a rock in his trunks. It’d be a little sad how eager he’s being except—no it’s just sad.

But Steve goes with it. They walk to Steve’s car with a few feet separating them, Steve leading the way and if someone were to look it’d be like Steve’s going one way and Billy another.

Steve mutters under his breath _aren’t you hot, Hargrove?_ , as corny and lame as ever and loud enough for Billy to hear him, face going hot because of the sun and his own very personal feelings about the subject.

Billy laughs. Whips his shirt off right there and tucks it into the back of his trunks. Does that thing where he flexes and Steve bumps into the back end of a station wagon, getting another laugh out of Billy.

It’s sort of a miracle how no one’s caught on to what they’re doing. Not like Steve’s capable of being subtle. Somehow Billy’s even worse.

What kind of guy sticks their tongue out like _that_ to another guy they’re _not_ planning on fucking around with?

Steve planned ahead. It’s the only time he ever does. A career? Steve’s gonna wing it. Getting a blow job from _Billy Hargrove?_ Steve’s gonna have blueprints and an itinerary his dad would be proud of. He’s thought of everything. Used his years of living in Hawkins to his advantage to find the perfect, out of the way and not suspicious parking spot.

It’s in the shade. The windows are already rolled down. Inside the car is still warm and Steve’s skin sticks to the leather anyways, but then the door shuts behind Billy and then Billy’s climbing on top of him and Steve doesn’t have a ton of time to set his _real_ plan into action before his trunks are tugged down to his ankles, Billy’s hand is on Steve’s dick and Steve gets an eyeful of the top of Billy’s golden, chlorine frizzed hair as he lowers his head.

Billy’s breath hot on the head of his cock and Steve’s entire body twitches.

Steve’s not used to this. Before Billy he can count the number of times he’s had a blowjob on one hand. None of his girlfriends had known what they were doing. None of them had been this good or had taken him as deep. None of them really seemed to enjoy doing it all that much, not like Billy.

Steve slams his head into the car door when Billy hums, happy to have a hard cock in his mouth probably. Takes himself out of the wet heat of Billy’s mouth with the pain to remind himself that Billy sucking him off is one of the highlights of his Scoops Ahoy life, but not why he actually came here.

Billy’s good at everything except being a human person and he is an absolute kung fu master at taking Steve’s dick to heaven and having to stop that suction is _difficult_.

Awkward doesn’t begin to describe getting Billy’s attention. Steve clear his throat. Pokes at Billy’s shoulder, says, “hey, I wanna try something.”

Billy lifts off with a hard _suck_ and a wet pop that shakes Steve’s entire belief system more than finding out about the Upside Down ever did.

He’s got one eyebrow up and one hand stroking Steve with long pulls that make his thighs twitch and every breath out of him a challenge.

Billy says, “oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And what’s that, pretty boy?”

Billy’s smile is mean and sharp and his hold on Steve tightens and _somehow_ that look shoves him closer to shooting his load.

Steve’s brain has left his dick in charge and his dick is, like, the stupidest part of him.

“Um.”

“Come on, don’t be shy. Is it that dirty? You secretly a perv, Harrington?”

 _Yes,_ is the answer to that. Kissing is the least and the most of what Steve’s imagined doing with Billy in the last month since this started.

Saying what he wants to do will just make it a thousand times more lame than to just do it, so Steve _does it_.

He grabs Billy by the back of his neck and pulls himself closer, aim’s himself at Billy’s lips and pulls the trigger.

Billy jerks back.

“What the fuck? What the fuck, Harrington?”

“I—“

Billy’s off him. Plasters himself against the other door. The BMW has a big backseat, way bigger than the camaro, but not big enough for two dudes their size to _not_ be touching with Steve sprawled out like this. Billy tries his best, though.

Eyes wide and cheeks gone red, not the kind of flush from the heat, but _red_. Billy’s not pissed. Steve has experienced Billy angry and this isn’t it.

This is new. This is the same expression Steve sees when it’s the middle of the night and he catches himself in the mirror.

Panicked.

And Steve’s imagined Billy in a lot of different ways, different scenarios, but he’s never once thought Billy was capable of being _scared_. It doesn’t fit into the person Steve thought he knew.

The words come out easier, now. Softer. “I wanna—”

“—No—”

“—I wanna kiss you.” Steve says again, finishing it.

Billy’s lip curls. The fright is wiped out.

“No, that’s gay.” Billy explains, slow, like Steve is _that_ dumb.

Steve doesn’t believe him. Can’t. Isn’t gonna. He stares down Billy, waits for him to crack some asshole joke, but Billy doesn’t so Steve laughs for him. A little hysterical.

“You literally had my dick in your mouth two seconds ago.”

“That’s _different._ ”

“How?”

“It’s _kissing_. A dude.”

“You have some of my jizz on your lip, by the way,” quick, Billy wipes at his mouth. Steve says, “really? Really?”

Billy glares at him. “What are the rules, Harrington?”

“Our dicks have _literally_ touched. _That’s_ gay. Kissing is—okay, well, that’s gay too, I guess. But seriously, Hargrove?”

“Yeah, shithead. Seriously. I told you before we did anything—“

“No telling anyone and no kissing, yeah, okay, but—“

“—No fucking _buts_.”

Steve cracks a smile that only makes Billy roll his eyes and huff at him.

“Are you saying,” Steve reaches out, puts a hand on Billy’s arm, relieved when Billy doesn’t slap him away or shrug him off, “you’d rather kiss my dick than kiss me? Is that what you’re _actually_ committing to right now?”

“Fuck you.” Billy spits out then his hand is on the door about to open it and Steve’s chances are getting tinier and tinier. He hooks his fingers into the front of Billy’s trunks, stopping him or, at least, slowing him down.

“Please?” Steve says, pleading. “One kiss. Just one. That’s all, okay? Then we can go back to strictly dick-on-dick action, yeah? Just one, super small, fast, whatever kiss.”

Billy goes still. Twists his lips. Sucks at his teeth. Grumbles about not knowing _you were such a fucking pansy_ and Steve takes it, accepts it as the price he’s gotta pay for this. Doesn’t really care. He’s been called worse by people he loves and this is just _Billy_.

“Just one.” Steve promises, gives Billy’s trunks another tug.

Outside there are people laughing, kids shrieking as they cannonball into the pool, Heather blowing her whistle, car doors being slammed shut as Billy lets go of the door and moves towards Steve and Steve leans back till he’s sprawled out on the too-warm leather upholstery making him stick and Billy’s back on top of him, holding himself up on his elbows near Steve’s head so they’re not touching at all.

“One.” Billy says, his breath a warm puff on Steve’s face.

“One.” Steve agrees, nods his head keenly. He can do one. One is all he needs.

Billy’s a solid wall of muscle above him, unmoving and Steve would roll his eyes if he wasn’t holding his breath and pushing himself to be the one to lean up, just a few inches to close the space between them. His eyes slip shut and there’s the warm press of Billy’s soft lips and his very-male mustache tickling at his upper lip and—

A simple peck. Then Billy’s breathing hard, groaning like Steve’s never heard him before. Kissing him back. Pushing against him. Lowering himself down onto Steve till he’s a thick, sticky-sweat body, hot from hours in the sun, rubbing against Steve and then he can’t keep himself still. It’s impossible. He’s running his hands down Billy’s back and then tangling his fingers in all that blond hair.

Steve isn’t prepared for this, hadn’t thought _this_ part through.

It’s a kick to his system when he notices the taste, can barely think passed Billy sliding alongside him, hard cock against his. Nearly comes right then at Billy slowly opening his eyes, dazed and _pretty_ with his lips red, redder than they should be, and redder than they were by the pool.

“Is that,” Steve licks his lips to taste it again, “are you wearing lip gloss?”

There’s that awful look popping back up on Billy’s face saying he’s gonna run, so Steve reacts quick. Kicks one foot out of his trunks to wrap his thighs around Billy and keep him there.

“You are so fucking annoying, holy shit—“ Billy growls out and tries to tug at Steve’s arms around his neck then moves to try at his legs, but Steve’s got some muscle on him too and he’s not about to let this genuine asshole runaway from him.

Steve kisses him again. Gets just the corner of his mouth, but it makes Billy slow down and his grip on Steve’s thigh tightens and Steve _likes it_ so he kisses Billy again and again, licks at Billy’s closed, frowning lips. Makes his own happy noise and says with Billy’s plush bottom lip right up against his, “is it bubblegum? It’s sweet like bubblegum.”

Billy somehow manages to get stiffer, turns his head away from Steve and his face—he’s blushing. Hand to his heart, Steve never thought he’d see Billy flustered and he especially never for a second thought he’d be the one to do it.

Adorable. This pain in the ass jerk. Fucking adorable little shit right here.

He has to feel it, like he had to kiss Billy, it’s just a _must_. To make sure he’s not making it up in his head. Steve reaches out and puts his hand to Billy’s cheek, shocked when Billy flinches.

He’s not seeing things.

In a rush of something he’s not going to say what or even think what it could be, Steve has to kiss him again, heart pounding out of his chest he does. Softly and with too much of _something_ he will not be thinking about. Curls his hand around Billy’s nape and pinches his ear, soft and gentle and never, ever wanting to see that flinch again.

“It’s not—I’m not—I don’t—“ Billy says between the many-more-than-one kisses Steve plants on him. Steve hums.

He doesn’t care all that much, but Billy does. He shudders in Steve’s arms. Steve thinks in a blur of heat and hot skin and sweet-sugary-something on his lips, _this_ is why Billy had that rule. There’s liking dick when you have a dick and then there’s _this_.

It’s interesting. Not what Steve ever expected with all those fantasies he’s had involving Billy’s mouth. A little weird, too, but Steve’s learned everything and everyone who ends up in Hawkins is a little weird. Just a fact. It’d be weird if Billy _wasn’t_ wearing lip gloss.

“It tastes good.” Steve decides. Says it genuinely, not just to make Billy feel good like he’s done with girlfriends he’s trying to sweet talk into second base. He means it.

He gets a hand buried in Billy’s hair again and finally experiences the slow-making-girls-swoon-and-sigh kiss he’d seen so many times.

It’s as good as it looked.

Steve’s swooning. He’s sighing. He’s raking his nails down Billy’s back and getting a handful of his ass.

He’s definitely still going to be obsessing about kissing him, though. What that flavor could be. If the next time they meet up, will Billy taste like grapes or watermelon or strawberries.

It’s gonna be tough to look those kids in the eye.

Steve says, “seriously though, it is bubblegum flavor, right?”

“What am I, a Barbie?”

“I mean, you are blond and, like, tan and your lips are kinda girly—“

“— _No_.”

Steve gives Billy a quick peck, licks a short line across his bottom lip and Billy’s melting against him. “Strawberry. Gotta be strawberry. Am I right or am I super right?”

“You’re a super weird fucker, Harrington.” Billy tells him, looking at him like Steve’s an idiot, like Steve’s not real and maybe he imagines things too.

Steve gets that. Spent more than a year thinking the same thing, pretending everything was normal when it really, really wasn’t. Getting the first job outside of his dad’s company that came along, just so he could _breathe_ doing something that didn’t matter. One scoop or two, no one’s dying over chocolate and vanilla.

And, well, weird isn’t so bad.

If Billy wants to wear something sweet on his lips, _Steve gets it_.

Billy’s nose is all scrunched up and his blond hair is falling in front of his face, collecting all the bits of sun spotting throughout the shade, shining bright around pretty blue eyes and a prettier mouth.

Steve puts his thumb on Billy’s lip and rubs, presses just a little inside to feel the tip of Billy’s tongue meet him and pulls back to see the pink that’s rubbed off on the pad of his thumb. His entire body throbs at the thought of his own lips being smeared with Billy’s sweet pink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy's just really pretty and my life is wrecked.
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com)


	3. Lime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place **after** chapter 1 (Cherry).

Everyone at the party yells _ahoy!_ at Steve when he shows up. Asks him _what a TV star like you_ _is doing at a party like this_. Steve doesn’t have an answer other than _Scoops is destroying me from the inside out daily_ so he keeps his mouth shut. Grins. Double fists the nearest two red cups he finds and starts chugging.

Going to a party in Hawkins means Steve gets high. He gets drunk. He gets laid. He gets to dance to loud music that makes it hard to hear for the rest of the night. He has _fun_ with people who aren’t thirteen and don’t stammer around the word _pussy_ and don’t talk about monsters.

With Nancy, he skipped out on most parties. She didn’t want to go. It wasn’t her _scene_ because _books_. Steve wanted her to keep looking at him, so he never pushed. He got high on, like, love or some shit— _whatever_ —it doesn’t matter anymore.

 _What matters right now_ is Steve spinning the empty beer bottle and it just _barely_ landing on Chrissy Rogers. Unlike Nancy, she’s _easy_. She’s wearing cut offs and a thin white tank top _without_ a bra and giving him a _look_ from across the circle.

She’s also sitting next to Billy and maybe it’s the pot or the beer or the heat, but their matching golden curls are doing _a lot_ for Steve and his dick.

Steve lingers, stares outright at her chest. Her nipples are hard. _She’s probably wet_ , Steve thinks. It’s been _forever_ since he’s touched tits. _Real_ tits.

And since Billy’s been shrugging him off for the last _week_ Steve’s gonna take what he can get and that’s giggling Chrissy, her dirty blonde hair done up like Madonna and tied with a ribbon, pouty lips painted red to bring it all together.

He’s already hard. He’s been hard for a week. Jerking off just isn’t the same after Billy Hargrove.

It’s a mistake, a big one, to glance at Billy before crawling across the blue shag carpeting to Chrissy. It’s also impossible for him _not_ to at least _look_ at the guy who’s sitting right next to her, in her space and about to be in his. Billy’s stopped putting out. Steve doesn’t get it. It’s been the longest seven days of his life.

Fighting monsters and the end of the world is _nothing_ compared to Billy zipping his lips and closing his legs. Like, Steve can barely think most days now.

Chrissy, though.

She’s got a dirty mouth. Isn’t obsessed with keeping her knees pinned together and what the other girls will think. Steve spent the first half of his freshman year fooling around with her. Got up to second base after they’d been paired together for a science project. They’d failed it, but Steve got to put his hand up a girl’s skirt for the first time, so, _whatever_.

She’s easy and from the way she’s crooking her finger for him to come over, hips shifting, thighs rubbing together, she’d put out if he asked nicely or just kind of rubbed up against her, really. She’s been into him ever since and Steve’s never really thought much more about her, but if she’s offering—unlike Billy—he’s not gonna say _no_.

Steve’s going to be an idiot all his life so he looks at Billy again—can’t help it, like he’s about to be bit—just a quick check and their eyes meet and Billy’s not letting anything slip behind his glacial blues except the _I dare you_ Steve can hear clearly in his head. That’s where Billy is these days. In his head. His dreams. Sitting at Steve’s eleven o’clock, more sober than anyone else in the circle with his eyes set on Steve like Steve’s done something to piss him off.

Billy’s the one who’s been AWOL. It’s not like Steve forced him to sit in the circle and play. Like hell is Steve going to mope after the guy and beg for it.

Chrissy’s giggling when he’s half a foot away from her, which makes Steve start to giggle. _I’m gonna fuck her, she’s gonna let me fuck her,_ Steve thinks through the haze of cheap beer and cheap weed. His right hand’s lost it’s touch ever since Billy’s been _taking care of that_ and Steve hasn’t kissed a girl in, like, years it feels like.

He shouldn’t feel guilty or bad or weird, but he sort of does and that’s so dumb and right up his alley. Like Billy, who’s _super dumb_ and is _watching him_ and he’s _right there_ next to Chrissy, next to _him_.

Chrissy grabs him by the front of his shirt and tucks in. Tongue first. Lips tasting like peaches. Maybe. A familiar flavor and Steve’s got an eye on Billy, wanting to see his reaction and then decides he _really doesn’t_ and he also, you know, _doesn’t care at all_.

Chrissy’s not a bad kisser and she makes these little squeaks girls make when Steve grabs the reigns and shows how _good_ a kisser he is. Her nails are long and scrape at his chest through his shirt.

She grabs one of his hands and puts it on her breast to _whoops_ from everyone in the room and he doesn’t really care that there’s a whole group of people whistling and cheering them on, he squeezes and thinks, _yeah, this is nice_. Gets his other hand in her hair, curls sprayed tight _like Billy’s_ and she makes a nice sound when he tugs a fistful of them. Undoes her ribbon. Giggles when she giggles. She’s got a sweet laugh.

That’s the whole point of getting to make out with Chrissy. She’s just _easy_ and Steve is all for easy, especially when Billy decides to be a bitch and break the routine he’s got Steve set on and then get pissy like it’s Steve’s fault.

He can’t just get Steve off every day and then pretend he doesn’t exist. Billy’s not being fair, so Chrissy it is.

—

There’s not a ton to do in a town that’s surrounded by wheat and cows other than fuck around, smoke weed, and do meth and, like, Steve hasn’t had to go _that_ far to get his rocks off, but he knows half of his graduating class _definitely_ has, so there’s _always_ a game of spin the bottle or seven minutes in heaven at any party in Hawkins.

Past ten, you can’t play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and expect to have _fun_ anymore.

Nancy never went for any of the games, which meant Steve missed out on a year of getting an over-the-jeans-handy in front of his old classmates.

The game goes on for a while. Steve drinks more. Smokes whenever a joint comes within reach. He’s nowhere near sober enough to outright ignore Billy—isn’t good at it even when he is—so he ends up making eyes at him. Going from _fuck you too_ to trying to ask if Billy wants to get out of here with his eyebrows. Bounces back and forth from being pissed off with him and wanting Billy to just _tell_ him to get off his ass and suck his dick already.

Steve would do it in a heartbeat and he doesn’t know _when_ that happened. He used to blink twice and hesitate and tell himself it wasn’t gay if Billy was the one sucking him off and all he did was let him. He used to have standards just like he used to fuck girls.

Billy ignores him though. He’s talking to Chrissy. Making her laugh. She keeps touching his knee and he keeps letting her. Doesn’t shrug her off. Doesn’t bat her hand away.

Steve’s too stuck on how similar they look to even get up enough energy to be jealous of either one of them. The same hair color. Same curls. Even the same too-tight white t-shirt. Thinking back on it, Steve’s _sure_ they even have the same color nipples.

They could be twins. It’s a thought that sends Steve reeling and his blood pounding. He doesn’t try to hide the way his jeans are tenting. The only one who’ll remember in the morning is Billy and Billy’s wrapped up in Chrissy and set on not giving Steve an ounce of attention.

Steve ignores most of the game, catches the few sad moans whenever the bottle narrowly misses Billy. Loses a good chunk of time imagining Billy and Chrissy making out, Billy on top of her, Billy going down on her, how his arms would look if he fingered her. He has the tongue for it.

He only snaps out of it when it’s Chrissy’s turn—again—to spin and the bottle lands on Billy.

Finally something in Steve’s life is going _right_ and he’s biting his lip, twitching in his pants. Eager like it’s the first time he’s ever seen a porno. This is _Billy_ and Billy takes every opportunity he can to show off.

But all Billy does is tenderly kiss Chrissy on the cheek, like they’re married and it’s their fiftieth anniversary and Billy’s got a bouquet of roses behind his back.

She falls in love with him then, Steve can see it and feels jealousy take root in the bottom of his stomach.

 _Tender_. Steve’s never had _tender_ Billy.

Chrissy kisses Billy on the cheek. He laughs. Gets up and leaves.

—

Steve ditches the game. Doesn’t wait long enough after Billy leaves the room. He’s chasing after the guy and it’s obvious and Steve doesn’t care and his balls don’t and neither does his dick and everything inside of him is _throbbing_. He wants. That’s the thing. He _wants_.

But Chrissy comes after him. Crowds him into a corner and rubs two fingers down his fly. It’s _easy_ to kiss her and let her knead him through his jeans

Chrissy’s a sure thing, but she’s no Billy and Steve’s lost it when he turns her down as nicely as a guy with a week old hard-on can.

Billy’s upstairs in the bathroom. The door’s not locked so Steve lets himself in. Locks the door behind himself, he remembers that at least. Manages to dodge the toilet paper roll Billy lobs at his head. Steve picks it up. Tosses it in the air to be cool and completely misses catching it.

Billy’s sipping from a red cup while he’s pissing, belt unbuckled and jeans flayed open, and it’s a little gross. Billy’s gross, though, and so is Steve and the things he would let Billy do to him right now if Billy stopped being the King of Mixed Signals.

“You’re gross.” Steve tells him and all he gets is Billy nodding, burping, and saying without looking up from his dick, _word, man, word._

Gross. Nasty. Steve’s so into it, _shit_.

Steve stays chill. Very cool. He’s the coolest guy in Hawkins. Has been since he was a kid. That’s what everyone says. Maybe it’s because his parents are loaded or maybe he really _is_ cool. He didn’t always _feel_ like he was cool. With Nancy it hadn’t mattered. A lot of things stopped mattering with her and a lot of things started to matter too.

Right now, in this bathroom with the rose patterned wallpaper and the sound of Bon Jovi blasting through the walls, Steve is determined to be the coolest he’s ever been.

It all goes out the window though because his dick isn’t cool, his dick is lame and gross and has some weird _thing_ for Billy.

Steve comes up behind Billy and wraps his arms around him, presses his entire self to Billy’s back, puts his hands over Billy’s navel. Hooks his chin over Billy’s shoulder and sniffs at his cologne and hairspray. Squeezes Billy’s hips, gets his thumbs up under his shirt to touch the bare skin of his stomach—he’s always running hot like the California sun is still inside of him. Makes fucking him a dream.

Billy doesn’t push him off. Doesn’t react more than to pat his head and Steve’s a sad sack who’s going to take what he can get and kisses Billy’s neck, thanking him for the slice of attention.

“What about the blonde bimbo?” Billy says.

“Chrissy? Nah.”

“What, she turn you down, King Steve?”

Steve kisses at his neck. Stays there, right where he should’ve been days ago. “Didn’t bring a rubber.”

“And she doesn’t have a mouth?”

Billy says it mean, spits it out. He’s not jealous. Steve can’t for a second think he is, so he won’t. He ignores it.

Steve rubs at Billy’s stomach, his abs twitch from the firm touches so Steve keeps going, lingers around the light hairs there. Tugging at them softly. He grinds against Billy’s backside, small circles with his hips that Billy leans back into and don’t show an ounce of how bad he just wants to bury himself inside Billy and _pound_ and all Billy does is _hum_ along with the music from downstairs. Doesn’t push him away like the other times. Doesn’t tell him to _hurry the fuck up_ either.

Steve reaches down and manages to stroke him once before Billy’s got a grip on his wrist, stopping him. He sets his red cup on the vanity and grabs Steve’s hands, shoves them up, under his shirt, over his chest. Steve gets the idea. Squeezes. Works Billy’s already perky dark nipples hard. No girl in the entire world likes their tits groped more than Billy. Rubs and pinches and _scratches_ Billy back into someone who wants him.

Steve’s going to come like this, he can feel it happening. He’s going to cream his pants and Billy’s too sober to forget it and not throw it in Steve’s face. When he tries to get Billy off too, Billy stops him, doesn’t let Steve’s fingers reach passed the soft tuft of blonde curls.

Steve whines. Hates himself for it. Whines some more.

“Come on, don’t be like that.” Steve says. Billy huffs.

“Step off, Harrington.”

“Baby.” Steve says into Billy’s ear. Feels his entire body shake. Says it all again, smooths his hands up and down his chest to his hips. Pours how much he wants to _fuck Billy_ and _suck his dick_ into it. “Baby, baby, _baby._ Let me, come on.”

Billy’s easy. Real easy if you know which buttons to push. He melts when Steve’s sweet with him so Steve saves it up. Goes nuclear only when Billy’s stuck on being difficult.

Billy wants to be complimented. Treated like he’s special, like Steve hasn’t been through all this a million times before with every girl he’s fooled around with.

“There’s no one better at taking my dick than you, sweetheart.” Steve croons into Billy’s ear. Feels him shiver. Happy with being sweet talked.

Steve never pulls out the _baby’s_ or the _sweetheart’s_ too often, doesn’t want to seem like he means it. Billy’s no sweetheart and he’s not Steve’s anything, but if it gets Billy’s defenses down and opens him up for Steve, then fuck it, Billy’s his babe and his sugar-bear and the love of his life.

Steve tries it again, tries to reach for him, is so sure he’s got Billy rearing to go, but Billy’s shaking his head, yanks his hand away, shoves Steve away too.

Steve’s back hits the wall. The towel rack digs into his spine and he winces

“Jesus, can’t you take a hint, Harrington? _Not there._ ” Billy spits out. Shoulders bunched together. Zips himself up. Flushes the toilet, the sound _final_.

Billy whips around to glare at him. Eyes setting out to burn him alive.

Steve’s still hard. _Harder_ , actually, with Billy looking like he hates him. Billy’s fucked him up. The Upside Down’s fucked him up. Scoops Ahoy has demolished him. Steve’s just _fucked_.

“Okay. Shit.” Steve says, not understanding. Billy’s erection is a hard line, straining against Billy’s tight jeans, looking painful and in need of Steve’s mouth. He licks his lips without thinking. He’s turned into a cocksucker.

He laughs and it’s the wrong thing to do. He grabs Billy’s wrist before he reaches the door. Stops him. Turns him around. There’s a snarl on his lips.

Steve’s not completely gone. He doesn’t want to fight Billy right now. He wants to kiss him so he does. Tentative. Moves slowly. Sucks on his bottom lip, sweet and slow, their tongues meet somewhere in between and _this_ is a good kiss. A really good one. Steve’s the one melting and making noises now.

 _Like peaches,_ Steve thinks and for just this once, sloshed and ready to tear through denim prick first, keeps it to himself.

“Okay.” Steve tells him again. Calm and reeling himself in the best he can. Rubs the dip in Billy’s back through his shirt, relieved when Billy reaches out and touches and squeezes his hip.

Billy’s lashes are thick and dark when he looks up at Steve through them, pissed off and unsure and Steve’s never known what to think when Billy looks at him like that.

“Sweetheart,” Steve sighs, soft. Nudges him backwards, towards the vanity. Billy doesn’t fight him. Steve pats the counter. Gives his best _sad and sweet and in need of a belly rub_ look.

Billy jumps up on the vanity, hands curled around the edge of the marble, and Steve pushes at his knees, makes room for himself and doesn’t try to rub him through his pants like he usually would. Hands above the waist is the new rule. Billy’s got a habit of throwing new ones at him and just as quickly tossing them away after he’s wrung Steve dry of patience and jizz.

He probably gets off on it. Steve definitely does. They’re both assholes.

Someone bangs on the door. Steve’s not about to let the only room with a lock go, so he yells out _occupied_. Billy’s tensed up. A wall of solid muscle that’s not about to give an inch.

“Everyone’s wasted.” Steve reassures him. “No one knows we’re in here.”

“Whatever.” Billy chews at his thumbnail. Nervous.

Steve eyes his rings and bracelets—he’s wearing more than usual. Probably dressed up for the party. Steve kisses the biggest ring and when that catches Billy off guard, eyes wide and his cheeks going pink, Steve leans in and kisses him again before Billy can tell him to _fuck off_.

It’s easy enough to get Billy to melt again. He can freeze up as many times as he wants, Steve’s got a week’s worth of tension with Billy’s name on it.

He’s got an idea now, where Billy wants this to go and how he can work within the new rules to get what he wants, the lines that he can’t cross but can maybe bend a little.

He lifts Billy’s shirt up, grabs the hem and shoves the thin fabric up to Billy’s neck. Dark nipples already hard and swollen. It’s nice to look at them. Be face to face with the results of all his hard work. Steve’s proud of those puffy, pinched-sore nipples.

Steve catches Billy biting his bottom lip before he dives in, kisses one, chaste, and starts to finger the other. Grins when Billy makes a _noise_ , breath hitching.

Billy’s hands wind up in his hair, keeping Steve hunched over and close, sucking and scraping his teeth at his nipples, working them into fat, swollen red things that turn Billy into a quivering, shaking pain in Steve’s ass.

No one’s ever been this sensitive, not any girl Steve’s been with and Steve sure as hell doesn’t get much out of having his own touched. Steve’s certain there must have been a mix-up somewhere and Billy’s got himself a pair of real tits on him.

Steve sucks and licks thick and wet, up and down, twirls the point of his tongue, pinches and rubs and rubs and _rubs_ , gets Billy’s nipples hard and soaked and so sensitive his hips jerk and lift off the counter to push up into the air.

There’s a house full of people outside the door. A few more knocks happen, someone wanting to come in and Billy always starts, jumps, almost knocking Steve’s nose in, but Steve stays steady, gets a crick in his neck and feels himself developing scoliosis from being bent over, but it’s worth it.

Billy’s thighs twitch around his waist, wanting to rub together, pull Steve in. Can feel Billy opening up, like he’s got a real cunt down there getting wet for him.

Mutters _you got the nicest tits,_ gets a handful and squeezes and Billy’s moaning, actually _moaning_ Steve’s name, actually calls him _Steve_ and all of Steve _throbs._ Billypushes out his chest, fists Steve’s hair and drags Steve up to kiss him and he’s definitely, without a doubt wearing the same flavor as Chrissy. Steve’s not imagining it. It has to be peach. Maybe they really are twins too.

Steve doesn’t stop playing with Billy’s chest, pinching at one nipple, flicking at it, using his nail and liking how Billy squirms and claws at his back, how his neck goes pink too along with his cheeks, how red his lips get when Steve turns him on.

He’s prettier than Chrissy. Prettier than any girl in Hawkins.

Steve kisses his neck, grinds his dick into the rounded edge of the vanity, driving himself fast to doing exactly what he’d been trying not to do and not giving one shit. He wants to come with Billy panting in his ear, making these barely there sounds Steve’s only heard when he’s had two fingers rubbing the wet patch on a chick’s panties.

Billy gasps in his ear when he rubs just the pad of his thumb light on the peak of his nipple. The air’s full of honey, sweet and thick and sticking Steve to the heat between Billy’s legs.

Steve says, “you wanna be my girl, Hargrove?”

Billy stiffens and Steve thinks someone’s knocked on the door again. A small bump in the road. Nothing he can’t fix.

Then Billy grabs his red cup, pulls Steve’s belt and dumps his beer down Steve’s pants.

It’s cold. Steve jumps back. Yelps, “ _what the shit!_ ”

Billy hops down from the vanity. Turns to the mirror to fix his shirt. His hair. Ignores Steve standing there, right behind him, angry and bewildered and _cold_ , until he turns around. Pats Steve’s crotch over the wet spot.

“Have fun with the bimbo.” Billy says with a bright smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and slams the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got in an editing loop with this chapter and I just needed to post it already.
> 
> [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/cannibear), and [twitter](https://twitter.com/granwinch)


	4. Wildwood Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Important:** This story was written before season 3 aired and it was revealed Robin is gay. So, please keep that in mind when reading.

Tommy’s basement is stifling. There’s no AC, only a fan that rotates left and right with a backdoor that’s left wide-open for the hotter night-air outside to come in.

Cutoffs riding up, Billy’s ass is sticking to the leather of the sofa. The weed is, like most things in Hawkins, a let down. A porno from the seventies is playing on the twenty-four inch television—two women in nursing costumes and it’s a little redundant and not exactly doing anything for him and it’s probably Tommy’s _only_ porno and he _probably_ got it from his dad’s stash.

It’s been four days since the party and _Chrissy Rogers_ and the beer move that wasn’t the smartest thing Billy’s ever done. He doesn’t really regret it. Mostly he’s just pissed at Steve and when he _isn’t_ pissed at Steve, he’s left to be annoyed with himself.

Tommy hasn’t stopped talking since Billy got here. Billy tunes him out, caught up in the way Steve kissed Chrissy Rogers and if _that’s_ how he and Steve look from the outside. It’s not. That’s the part making Billy bite at his nail till his thumb is bleeding. Four days of avoiding each other—Billy doesn’t go to the mall and Steve hasn’t come by the pool.

They’re done. Probably. Billy doesn’t care. It was going to happen anyways. By the end of the summer or now, it’s better for _whatever_ to be done and over with sooner than in a few weeks when Billy’s back at school and Steve’s—who the hell knows where.

Billy’s practical, he knows he’s made up of pieces that don’t fit, aren’t even part of the same puzzle, and he could always recognize Steve and him just don’t _work_ together and were never meant to.

Billy slumps down into the couch. Takes another hit. He’s tired of his head and of Steve and of Hawkins and mostly, with all the honestly he can stand, Billy’s just tired of himself and his own bullshit. He wants out. He’d really appreciate an out. Any out, really. Literally, _anything_ to get him out of this mess.

Tommy keeps _chittering_. Laughing at his own joke. Nudging Billy’s side with his elbow. Billy hears him say Steve’s name and all his attention zooms back into the leather and wood paneled basement with two women banging each other on a fuzzy screen.

There’s no one who’s got the lowdown on everything Steve Harrington related like Tommy H. and it’s why Billy doesn’t mind the elbow jabs or the hand on his thigh that keeps trying to walk its way up his shorts. Tommy has all the stories on Steve that Steve’s not about to tell Billy and Billy’s let people fuck him for less and it’s not like Tommy’s ugly.

He’s not his type. He’s not Steve, either.

Tommy giggles in between coughing when he tells Billy, with a huge _proud of my bro_ grin on his face, that according to Carol who’s besties with Jessica B. who works the counter at Orange Julius next to Scoops Ahoy that Steve and _Robin_ finally sealed the deal after _so many months_ of _will they won’t they_ tension.

They went on a date.

“Steve definitely fucked her.” Tommy says as happy for Steve as if Tommy was the one to get laid.

For Tommy, it’s just a fact. Steve fucked the ice-cream chick. That’s what Steve Harrington did before Nancy Wheeler and that’s what he does after Nancy Wheeler. He fucks whoever catches his eye. Billy wasn’t special. He’s just _different_.

Billy takes the news as well as any guy who hears their fuck-buddy has moved on.

He _grunts_ when he feels that strangled knot in his throat.

He takes the joint when he wants to punch every freckle off Tommy’s face for telling him this—it’s not like he asked or wanted to know what _ole Stevie’s_ been up to and now he just _knows this_.

He slaps the back of Tommy’s sticky-with-sweat neck and grips him when all he really wants to do is drive over to Steve’s and climb through his window.

Except he can’t do that. _That’s_ admitting he did something wrong and Billy isn’t about to say something as sappy as _I’m sorry_. Apologies are a waste. They don’t mean shit.

Billy pulls Tommy down and Tommy goes with a laugh, his nose presses against the denim of Billy’s shorts. Billy just wants to come and feel better for a few minutes. Wipe his head clear of Steve and _Robin_.

If he’d known brushing Steve off meant Steve _finally_ going after that ice-cream bitch’s tail—Billy would’ve said _fuck it_ and thrown his legs up onto Steve’s shoulders and let him shove his whole damn arm up his ass at the party. The regret _stings_ and it’s bitter when it’s combined with the anger that begins to roil inside him, new and mean.

It’s too late for that. Billy’s not decent. He’s got rage in his veins for how stupid Steve can be and how _goddamn dumb_ it is he can’t just get his own wreck of a self together and just take one for the Billy Hargrove team.

He let’s Tommy blow him and there’s too much teeth and he doesn’t take him all that deep either and Billy’s itching out of his skin the entire time. There’s no closing his eyes and pretending on this one. He pictures Steve in his little sailor uniform, shorts shucked, _Robin_ wrapped around him on the counter at scoops.

Billy comes and feels a hundred times worse. Tommy goes in for a kiss and Billy’s out the back door, a mumbled out excuse thrown over his shoulder before it lands.

He circles round the side of Tommy’s house towards where he parked the camaro, but stops to press his forehead against the siding and punch, once, really hard. Another dumb thing to do. His entire hand throbs, vibrates in pain up to his elbow. He digs his knuckles into the siding, bites his trembling lip to get it to stop and refuses to feel one more thing for that asshole Steve Harrington.

—

It’s two minutes before ten when Billy pulls up to the Wheeler’s to pick up Max. Steve’s BMW is parked just outside.

Billy stares at it for _at least_ a solid minute. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t try to explain Steve to him. There’s no one inside and there’s no chance he can walk by it without doing _something_.

The decision is made quick. First, he keys the driver’s side of the BMW, front door to back. A wobbly line that’s a little _too_ straight, so he does the same thing to the other side, this time going for more of a zig-zag.

Billy twirls his keys around his finger afterwards, feeling good for the first time since the party—since _before_ the party, maybe since the first time Steve kissed between Billy’s legs and smiled up at him with Billy’s lipgloss smeared glittery pink on his lips.

Karen Wheeler invites him inside and Billy smiles and says _thanks, miss_ all nice and sweet and _respectful_ like his daddy taught him to be and then Karen Wheeler dotes on him. She offers him a plate of snickerdoodle cookies she baked herself, still warm from the oven and cooling under how hard she’s batting her eyelashes at him. She asks about his summer plans, what he’s going to do when he graduates next year. She giggles a lot. Puts her hand on his arm and plays with her hair.

When Billy looks Karen Wheeler up and down, he doesn’t see someone he wants to have sex with. Girls are nice and all, but they aren’t guys. They don’t do it for him. What he sees is manicured nails and a blowout freshly sprayed and gets a noseful of some pretty scent she’s showered herself in _just_ for him. All this adds up to is a vague memory of the woman his mom used to be and who Billy can never hope to be either.

He keeps the smile up, though. Doesn’t let her get a good look at his red, scuffed knuckles or get a hint of how bad he just wants to go home and put a hole in the drywall of his room.

She tells him the party’s happening downstairs, that Steve is here too if he wants to stay and that she’ll go get Max for him, but she stays where she is, half in love with him, leaning closer like Billy’s going to put an arm around her waist and take off with her.

The idea pops into his head then and it’s not like a _good_ idea or anything, but still, he goes with it. He’s already screwed up so much, he might as well just really _go for it_.

It’s easy to get himself upstairs with an excuse for the bathroom. He wants an entire floor separating him from Steve and the brats and _the ex_ when he pokes around the room of the one girl who had Steve Harrington and threw him away for a paper bag of a guy.

Between the navy blue room and the peach striped room and the ancient, floral _Jessica Fletcher in New York_ room, it’s an easy guess which is Wheeler’s.

Billy eases the door closed behind him.

Pink, pink, and even more _pink_.

Tom Cruise catches his eye first. Framed and to the right of the bed—Wheeler definitely fingers herself to _Risky Business_. Christ knows Billy has more times than he can count.

He considers trying to find her diary. She’s the type to have one. He’s talked to her only once and it wasn’t exactly a long conversation or one where either of them were trying to play nice, but it was enough to know she still has enough of a thing for Steve to dislike Billy for being within ten feet of him and that she—without a doubt—writes all her _very sad_ sob stories into something frilly with flowers.

If he happens to find it, he’ll take a look, but if he doesn’t—there’s plenty else to look at.

He goes and opens the trunk under the window. Old keepsake shit is inside it. A cabbage patch doll, a teddy bear with mismatched eyes, an old musty quilt her sweet, caring grandma probably made for her. Nothing interesting. He closes it silently.

On her bedside table is a small box. There’s clearly a false bottom and inside _that_ are a stash of condoms. He tries to picture her and Paper Bag Byers fucking and can only imagine it as the most boring sex that’s over in two minutes.

Billy pockets the condoms. Cockblocking Wheeler is definitely a thing he has to do.

He goes through her books next, stacked up sloppily on top of each other in her _cute_ wicker bookshelf. Everything in Wheeler’s room is cute. Her bedspread. The flowers all over her walls—all over her _lamps_. The dumb cat statue. The clothes in her closet.

He rubs the soft cotton fabric of one of her pink tops. It’s something she’d wear under her sweaters or in summer. Billy clicks his tongue, forcing himself to move on before he goes off the deep end.

The pictures pinned to the cork board aren’t interesting. Just Wheeler and some redheaded girl and the kids too. A lot of them are with Paper Bag Byers. Only one of the photos has Steve. They’re both smiling. Steve’s happy and in love. He wonders if Steve has ever made that kind of expression with Billy and maybe he just missed it or was looking away when he did.

Or maybe Billy’s being _goddamn dumb_ again.

There are scrunchies and brushes and makeup huddled together on one corner of her desk. She doesn’t have much variation when it comes to what she puts on her lips. Less than Billy has hidden away in his camaro.

He pokes around her lipstick and lip gloss and finds a shade he doesn’t own and that doesn’t make him yawn—a light pink that reminds him of the one and only barbie doll Max ever owned.

She left it back in California.

He unscrews the top and puts it on using the mirror over the dresser. Smacks his lips together. The shade is nice. Lighter than his natural color. It glistens. He won’t have to wipe it off now that it’s dark. Max won’t notice and the only one who’ll be awake by the time they get to the house will be Susan.

Looking at his reflection he touches up his hair as much as he can without any of his product. Fluffs up the back. Twirls that one curl hanging over his forehead tightly around one finger and lets go. It holds it’s shape a little better.

Billy smiles at his reflection. Bats his eyelashes. Winks half-heartedly, not really feeling it. Thinks about shaving his mustache when he gets home.

The dresser is too tempting to pass up. Maybe he just wants the sting of _Robin_ to hurt more.

He cracks the top drawer open slow and then yanks when it’s too stuffed to open gently. Wheeler’s panties are piled together in a mess. Nothing catches his eye.

Pausing, he listens for anyone coming up the stairs. There’s the sound of laughing from the basement, distant. No one’s coming.

He pokes through the drawer with one finger thinking the pair she lost her v-card in will start to glow or jump out to him. Tommy and half the school said it had been with Steve. She’s lucky.

He’d lost his virginity in a pair of yellow swim trunks underneath the pier just blocks away from home. He’d gotten sand in his nose and a pointy seashell had cut up his elbow, leaving a scar. The guy had been rough and Billy hadn’t cared. Rough was the usual, then.

He’d had the trunks on around one ankle the entire time. He left those back in California.

All of the underwear blend together. Most of them are pairs he’s seen in Sears catalogues. All of them are cute in that way everything girly is cute.

He looks at the reflection of the bed. At the new pink on his lips. At his hair that he hasn’t cut since before he moved to Hawkins, curling around his shoulders, over his eyes.

If Billy had been born just a little differently he’d get Steve to knock him up and they’d have a shotgun wedding, drive out of town with tin-cans tied to the camaro’s bumper, telling the world Steve was his and neither one of them would look back and he wouldn’t be doing _this_ on a Monday night in July.

But this is who Billy is stuck being. There is no zipper on his skin he can just pull down, change the wrapping and hang it up in the closet for the next time he’s feeling it. He’s no Chrissy or _Robin_. He can’t be Wheeler with her tits and cunt and her natural born ability to wear high heels and a cute skirt without getting a pissed off Neil in her face, raging about _respect for the family means not being a trussed up faggot_. He doesn’t get to be the person who has Steve and keeps him.

Billy is sick to his stomach with envy for Nancy Wheeler.

He spots the baby blue pair with a bow on the front towards the bottom. Cute. _Pretty_. The kind of blue Billy loves and elastic enough to fit someone his size. He wraps his fist around them, tightly like they’ll disappear, and stuffs them into his pocket.

On his way out he swipes a scrunchie off her desk. It’s the red one. He slides it onto his wrist and thinks, _fuck you, Neil_.

—

Downstairs, Karen Wheeler tells Billy Max will be up soon. They’re in the middle of their little _story_ and Billy only has it in himself to let Karen Wheeler moon over him for another few seconds before he needs to leave and smoke a pack and readjust his plans to hightail it out of Hawkins. Sooner is always better.

Steve is coming up from the basement. He’s in the hallway, a mouthful of snickerdoodle, staring at Billy dumbstruck, _handsome_ , the nerdy kid with the hat behind him—Henderson—Billy reminds himself. One of Max’s stalkers.

Punching him ties with letting the moron take him out back and sticking his dick inside him as a way of saying _my bad_ since words can’t really capture how much Billy’s missed this country bumpkin idiot and the backseat of his beemer.

Neither of those can happen. Not when Billy’s looking at the actual Steve.

He says a quick _bye_ to Karen Wheeler, turns on his heel and exits the scene with Steve following after him.

—

Hawkins is _so quiet_ at night. Back in San Diego there was the sound of the ocean, the traffic from the freeway, hundreds and thousands of people squished together, so much white noise Billy hadn’t noticed until it was all gone and he was stuck in _Indiana_ where there was only _silence_. The woods soaked any noise up. The people here went into lock down at nine.

Out on this _nice_ and _respectable_ street passed ten—Billy can hear the way Steve walks behind him, how he’s breathing hard, when he wipes his hands on his jeans, when he goes to say something and shuts his mouth. Billy can hear _everything_ in this quiet.

They get to the curb, near Steve’s car, when Steve mutters to himself, _what the fuck?_. Billy pulls out a cigarette and lights up, gets one _very nice_ inhale in when Steve grabs his arm, turns him around.

“You say something?” Billy says. Smiles up at Steve who’s come in close, wide eyed and lost with that beginning wrinkle between his eyebrows that says he’s angry and getting angrier the more Billy smiles. And he’s still hot. Really hot with that crop top and tight jeans combo he only got a peak at before he turned tail.

Billy doesn’t run from his problems, but he will when it comes to cute guys like Steve.

Billy takes another puff and blows smoke in Steve’s face, but Steve doesn’t let go of him, he fists the front of Billy’s shirt, jerking him forward. Rips the cigarette from Billy’s mouth and tosses it to the ground. Smashes it with the toe of his sneaker. A waste of money, right there.

“Did you key my car?” Steve grits out.

“I wasn’t done with that yet.” Billy tells him. Stays chill despite being giddy. He wants Steve to hit him. Hitting is easier. Physical pain is something Billy knows inside and out.

All Steve does is stare at him. It’s dark and the light from the streetlamp and the Wheeler house can only do so much to fight off the swallowed whole sensation that comes with Hawkins at night. Billy would put his right hand on the camaro and swear he can see Steve’s jaw clench.

But he doesn’t hit him. He stands there, clutching at Billy, anger being kept just under the surface, in control. Billy can see all the signs and Steve still isn’t reacting how any other guy should.

So Billy nudges at his chest, just two fingers that say _I dare you_ , a little push that barely makes him sway on his feet.

“Do it.” Billy tells him.

“Fuck you, no.”

Steve looks him up and down, hair loose. Product sweated off throughout the day, probably. Billy used to tug that hair with both hands to get Steve to make these little choked off noises.

He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t let go of Billy’s shirt and Billy keeps his fingers pressed to his chest. Can feel the soft cotton of his shirt. The summer heat of his body. The distant _thump-thump_ of his heart just to the right.

They stand there, staring each other down and it would have lasted for hours and maybe the tension would never have broken if Steve valued the build up or found the crack of knuckles on another person’s body more comforting than a _hug_ , but the moment gets cut off at the knees when Steve does a double take on Billy’s wrist and stumbles.

“You have a scrunchie.” Steve says. His grip goes lax. Eyes glued to the red scrunchie around Billy’s wrist, Steve plucks at it and _swallows_. “Why do you have a—a _scrunchie?_ ”

Billy tenses. Steve’s never laughed at _this_ , but he still clenches up, ready for the worst. A habit born out of self-preservation.

Billy shoves Steve’s hand away. Steps back. Puts some space between them.

“None of your business.”

“Only girls who get dumped key cars.” Steve tells him slowly. Steve’s an idiot. Billy’s a bigger one.

“Your shit car get keyed a lot, Harrington?”

“You know what I mean.”

“We’d have to be a couple to break up.” Billy says. “And I didn’t key your daddy’s car.”

Steve sucks on his teeth, lips going pursed and pretty—he’s got these pouty lips that look obscene whether they’re fucked red or barely lit up by cheap Indiana lightbulbs. Papa Harrington’s a dick, not as bad as Neil, just bad enough for Steve to talk shit about him and mean it.

Billy goes to sit on the hood of his camaro. Steve follows him after a few seconds of pussy-footing, shuffling his feet and unclenching his hands a few times, leans against the drivers side door. Billy stares at the toe of his left boot, at the cracked asphalt, refusing to look at Steve. Waiting him out. Steve has better things to do, kids to baby and a real girlfriend to get sappy over.

There’s a big, ugly part of him chomping away at his insides that wants him to tell Steve his dick is small. He’s terrible at sex. Tommy H. is better at making him come than Steve ever was. _Robin_ will dump him too just like Wheeler did. Girls are awful and Billy, for once, isn’t an exception.

He’s working himself up. Knows it. Can feel his stomach twisting into even more of these painful knots that’ll take weeks to untangle. Billy crosses his arms and digs his nails into his biceps to keep from chewing them.

There’s a clicking to his left. Steve has his lighter out. Is flicking it open and closed. Billy watches him. Over and over again. It’s the only sound on the entire street. Click-click. Click-click. _Click-click._

Steve’s trying to work out the situation in his head.

Billy checks his watch. In the summer, Neil’s curfew is _sort of_ lenient. Max is still pushing it.

There’s a final _click_ and then Steve is turning towards him, shirt riding up and from the corner of his eye he sees Steve’s flat stomach stretch out. Billy wishes he was annoyed at how comfortable Steve is with his camaro. He’s making himself at home and the camaro has only ever been _Billy’s_ to call home.

Steve starts drumming his fingers on the roof. Billy turns so he’s got an arm across the camaro’s top too, hand lying flat, just short of Steve’s. The vibrations have a rhythm. It could be a song. Probably Billy Joel, Steve’s got this weird thing for Billy Joel.

Billy bites his lip—he likes seeing Steve like this with the camaro.

The quiet gets to him eventually. It pricks just behind the ear. Maybe three minutes have passed and Billy has thought of a thousand things he could say and not one of them is _nice_. Steve needs to go back inside before Billy says any of them. Billy needs to leave, but he can’t.

He wants Steve to stay outside of the cramped Cliched American Home with him. He hopes Max will come charging out the front door of the Wheeler’s and he hopes she’ll keep taking her sweet time, like she always does since it’s not her ass on the line, just to give him a few more minutes.

Billy gives in. The tension’s snapped him in two. He bites at his thumbnail.

“Fuck.” Billy spits out, done with being inside his head. “Sorry. Okay? I’m fucking _sorry._ ”

There’s no looking at Steve or his bug-eyed, doe-eyed, soft-eyed self for any longer than it takes to say the word.

“What?” Steve says.

“You heard me.”

“Just—you’re sorry? Are you—were you talking to me?”

Billy glares at him through narrowed eyes. “We’re the only ones out here, genius.”

“But, like, you never say _sorry_ and—are you apologizing for my car?”

“For _what-the-fuck-ever_ —“ Billy’s face goes warm and he hates Steve for every inch of Steve’s giant dick. “Where the hell is Max? Jesus fucking Christ, that kid.”

“Um.”

“What?”

“Well.”

“Say it, you pussy-ass motherfucker.”

“Well, _asshole_ , she told me to tell you she’s sleeping over since Jane’s here too and—and yeah. Don’t be pissed at her.”

“I’ll be whatever I want with her.”

“Yeah, okay.” Steve says slowly _again_. “But, also, don’t be mad at her. I was gonna tell you when I came upstairs, but then you sort of just, you know, ran out the door and—“ He wiggles all ten of his fingers.

“Shut up, Harrington.”

Steve sighs and the silence is back, sits its fat ass down right between them and Billy’s left wanting to kick himself and then Max and then Steve for being such a goodie-two-shoes-fuck.

Steve clears his throat. “Does Mrs. Wheeler always do that?”

“Give me cookies?”

“Make _eyes_ at you.”

Billy smiles. “How’d your date go with the ice-cream chick?”

“Fine. I get it. Whatever.”

“Good.”

“ _Yeah._ ” Steve taps his fingers hectically. Starts flicking his lighter again. “So, since you’re saying sorry, I guess— _sorry_. I’m sorry. About that night, at the party.” Doing this in the middle of a badly lit street’s a good enough reason to not have to make eye contact, but Steve still searches for Billy in the dark and finds him. “It was a dumb thing to say and I wasn’t exactly thinking with my head and I was a dick and sort of drunk and—you know.”

Steve’s constant flicking of his lighter stutters, misses a few beats.

The apology surprises Billy. No one really apologies to him and means it.

“Didn’t know you could do that.”

“Shut up.” Steve eyes the scrunchie again. Billy doesn’t shy away, letting Steve get as much of an eyeful as he wants to—and the fact that he wants to—maybe blue balls and cold beer down a guy’s pants isn’t so bad. “Where’d you get the scrunchie anyways?”

“Like it?”

“It’s cute. Suits you.”

Billy _glows_. How he isn’t lighting up the entire street right now.

“Got it from some chick I fucked.” Billy says.

Steve’s nose scrunches up. _Cute._ Billy looks back at the Wheeler house. No one’s coming out. No one’s looking through the windows. Hawkins is the most boring place in the world. All it has going for it is country cock and milkshakes.

“But you don’t—“ Steve stops.

“What don’t I do?”

“ _Girls._ ” Steve says and Billy _knows_ for a fact Steve’s blushing even if he can’t quite tell with the scraps of yellow light.

“Maybe I got a taste for it.” Billy shrugs. Knocks on the camaro’s top twice. “You fuck the scoops bitch?”

Steve huffs, mutters _she’s not a bitch_ , which is _the biggest lie_ , but Steve has the worst taste in girls _and_ guys. He starts drumming his fingers again. Inching his way towards Billy’s on the warm metal of the camaro.

“Gimme a smoke.” Billy tells him, holds out his hand and at Steve’s disbelieving look, he says, “you owe me a smoke.”

“I owe you a beer down your pants and a scratched camaro.”

“You do that and I’ll slash your tires too.”

Steve snaps his fingers and points to him. King Steve is long gone, just the Dork King remains. Billy wants to laugh.

“So you _did_ fuck up my paint.”

“It was probably one of your brats. Always up to some shenanigan or tomfoolery.”

Steve cracks a smile, like he’s fighting it and has given up. “How are you this exhausting?”

“‘Cause I’m pretty.”

The sound and the way Steve laughs—like he’s happy, like Billy can make him happy—has Billy going hot under his collar. Steve’s smile hangs around, stoking the warmth in Billy’s chest, untying the knots in his stomach one by one, until there’s something big and heated left in their place.

Steve pulls out a smoke for Billy, lights it for him by sticking it in his mouth first and getting the first drag before handing it over, his eyes catching on the scrunchie. Their fingers touch—warm on warm. Familiar. No one’s ever been familiar in a good way.

Steve’s hand is back on the camaro and this time there are no inches between them. He touches the edge of Billy’s fingers with his own. Lightly. From knuckle to his nails. His pinky first. Goes from finger to finger. Brushes at Billy’s rings. Steve strokes down the length of Billy’s thumb, sending shock waves of tingles through his entire hand, up his arm, to every nook of his entire body.

And then Steve lays his hand over Billy’s.

A lot of what Steve does surprises him. There’s no rough in him. He’s just Steve.

Billy moves in closer, pulled in by the soft weight of Steve’s hand on his. The Wheeler house disappears. The entire block is empty of any house, any car. It’s just the two of them. Hawkins drifts off. Billy’s chest is tight. He shies away from looking at Steve too long. Pretends all his attention is on the cigarette in his other hand and not the heat of Steve’s body.

He really did miss Steve. As much as someone who’s never had anyone can.

The sentiment makes mush of his brain. Grabs him by the throat and squeezes till the anger is gone. _Robin_ is gone. Wheeler is gone. The mess of _needing someone_ and _wanting someone who’s too good for his bullshit_ underneath overflows.

“I really didn’t.” Steve tell him quietly, he may as well have whispered it into Billy’s ear from how Billy shivers. “Robin just—we kissed. Got a little handsy in the theater. That’s it, I swear.”

“Handsy, huh?” Billy says.

He pictures _Robin_ with her pretty nails scratching at Steve’s back, clutching at his hair while he sticks his hand down the front of her pants and rubs her while Kevin Kline plays cowboy on the big screen.

Billy flicks Steve’s belt buckle.

“Do it.” He tells him.

Steve plays dumb just as good as anyone in Hollywood.

“Do what?”

“Jerk off.” Billy says. “I wanna watch.”

Steve checks the street. The Wheeler’s. The house across from them.

“Here? Now?”

“Yep.” Billy takes a drag, blows the smoke up and away from them.

Steve’s hand is still on his—it twitches. He puts his other on his hip.

“But you literally—you don’t even let me walk next to you and now you want me to get my dick out?”

Billy nods. It’s simple. It cannot be more simple. He wants to see Steve get off. It’s one of his favorite things to do in this town, one of the only things _to do_ at all. _I like the face you make when you come,_ Billy thinks. He might tell Steve that if he has to.

“So,” Steve drags the _o_ out for years. His hands finally move to perch on his belt. He’s becoming jittery, eyes skating all over to land back on Billy. “Are you gonna do it too or—“

“ _Nope._ ”

Steve stops asking questions. He gets to it and that’s one of the things Billy likes about him. He’ll act pissy and like he _doesn’t_ enjoy Billy bossing him around, but he gets this flush on his skin that goes down his chest and to the head of his dick that makes him look soft and makes Billy want to kiss him and tell him to do all kinds of awful things.

Hesitating for only a second and for one last check, Steve undoes his buckle. Unzips. Shuffles his jeans down just enough to pull every inch of him out and he’s hard, _leaking_ and just as wet as Billy is.

Billy wonders what did it for him. If it was the scrunchie or just seeing Billy again or the prospect of jerking off where anyone who’s known him since he was a toddler could drive by and see just who he’s grown up to be.

Steve leans his back against the camaro. Gives Billy a good sideview of his dick and Billy’s body clenches, remembering every time he’s had Steve inside him and how good it had felt to be so full.

On the first stroke Steve hisses out _fuck_ , head tilting back to show his long neck, his Adam’s apple, his eyes slipping closed as he gets into it. Finds a good rhythm that isn’t too fast or slow. He’s taking his time.

Billy takes a long, long drag of his smoke, eyes going half-lidded as he watches. He leans closer and closer till his arm on the camaro’s roof is behind Steve’s back, over his shoulders. He can see the beads of sweat on the back of Steve’s neck, his hair sticking wet to his skin. How his chest is already starting to heave out breaths. There’s the slick slide of Steve’s hand on his cock, spreading all that pre-come that’s dripping steadily to the asphalt on the downstroke.

Steve’s face is pinched, his mouth hangs open and in the dim light Billy can almost see the pink of his tongue.

Billy moves to kiss him, but stops barely an inch away. Steve leaks more and more onto the street and Billy licks his lips. He takes another drag and blows the smoke out his nose.

“Thinking about your date?” Billy says into Steve’s ear. Lips just brushing the rim. Steve shakes his head _no_. “What the hell does _handsy_ even mean out here? Is that like second base for hicks?”

Steve keeps his eyes closed when he nods. Fist going a little faster now.

A dog barks and then even more start to. Billy glances at the Wheeler house. To his left. His right. Still no one.

Steve’s eyes are closed, still, caught up in his own hand.

“You finger her?” Steve nods. Billy hates him. He sucks harder on the cigarette. He licks at Steve’s ear and when Steve shakes and his knees buckle, he says, “did you make her wet?”

Steve bites his lip.

“She got a tight pussy on her, Stevie?” Billy doesn’t wait for an answer. He runs one finger down Steve’s chest, down his twitching stomach to his dark curls and says sweetly, “tighter than mine?”

“Fucking _fuck,_ Billy.” Steve says, eyes snapping open to stare at him.

Billy flicks his smoke to the ground and lays his hand flat on Steve’s lower stomach, scratches at the thin skin there.

“What’s with you and clamming up on me, pretty boy?”

Steve’s biting his lip fat and says, annoyed, “you’ll think it’s dumb.”

“Probably.”

“I was. Just. Your—your _scrunchie_. I was thinking about you and the damn scrunchie and then you had to say _that_.”

“What?”

Steve’s eyes have gone so dark they’re nearly pitch black and it’s Billy who’s left quaking while Steve’s hips jerk up, his fist flying as he strips his cock when he hisses out, “ _your pussy._ ”

There’s no decent part left to Billy, but this, having Steve hard and dripping in front of him out where anyone could see, Billy knows to his bones he wants to make Steve feel good, to make him come as many times as Steve will let him.

Billy moves, stands in front of Steve, caging him in with the camaro. Like this he has a good view of the Wheeler’s house. If someone drives by they’ll just look like they’re arguing, about to fight.

He pushes Steve’s hand out of the way and the first touch to Steve’s dick—wet and sticky and hot—makes Steve hunch in on himself, twitch and twitch and _twitch_ in Billy’s hand.

Steve stays curled over like that, watching Billy jerk him off with the scrunchie on his wrist. He reaches out slowly—carefully—and touches Billy’s hips, grips him hard when Billy doesn’t bat his hands away. His thumbs press into the bare skin of Billy’s sides, just over his shorts and Billy stutters in jacking Steve off, soaking up every little touch Steve gives him.

Big and hot in his hand, drenched in his own pre-come, Billy doesn’t have to spit into his palm or anything, but he does it anyways. He likes the mess. The filthy quality to it. Steve does too because he tenses, his entire body freezing up as thick jizz shoots out, coating his busted knuckles, the scrunchie, and all the way up to Billy’s elbow. Ropes of come covering _everything_. Billy wants to kiss Steve’s balls for being so damn generous.

Billy strokes him through it and keeps going after every drop has been pulled out of him. Steve’s making this _noise_. A whine that sounds so loud. Billy should cover his mouth. He wants to hear him, though. If they get caught, he wants to be able to replay that whine in his head while Neil chews him out later.

Steve’s twitching all over with his dick still hard when Billy pries his hand off. He wipes the mess off on the underside of his shirt and admires how Steve is sagging, boneless, against the camaro.

Panting, Steve puts himself away, wincing when he touches his dick.

“Goddamnit.” Steve says, looking down at his shorts—jizz on the denim and down his leg. “Well, this is gonna be awkward.”

“What? You think those brats haven’t jerked off before?”

“Oh my god,” Steve makes a face then a gagging noise, “I don’t wanna think about—why did you make me think about that? So much ew.”

“They’re like fourteen, that’s literally all they do.”

“You are the biggest asshole.”

“And you’re a giant bitch.” Billy says and then crouches, steadying himself on Steve’s hips as he’s going down. Looks up at him from under his eyelashes, licks his lips. Steve stands stock still, hands held limp in the air, waiting to see what he does. He’s not even breathing. Billy can just make out the outline of his hard dick in his shorts, twitching and ready for Billy to get his mouth on him.

He settles, gets a good balance on his heels and winks up at Steve, grips his thighs. Steve’s got nice thick thighs. Long legs. Every time they had practice, Billy could barely keep his eyes off them.

Billy licks up the spunk on Steve’s shorts, sucks it off the fabric till his spit has soaked through. Above him, Steve moans. His thighs twitch under his hands so Billy smiles, sucks even harder. He uses his finger to gather up the spunk on Steve’s leg and feeds it to himself, moans deep in his chest as he licks his finger clean.

 _Robin_ wouldn’t do this. Wheeler with her pink room wouldn’t do this either. No one but Billy Hargrove could ever take Steve’s load so nicely.

Steve grabs Billy under his arms, hauls him up and into a hurried kiss, their noses smash together before smoothing out into an open mouthed kiss that’s slick and wet, both his hands clutching at Billy’s jaw, Billy grasping at Steve’s waist, his tongue touching Billy’s, tasting himself, licking whatever spunk he can from Billy.

And Billy melts. Really melts. Everything that’s wrong with him swirls and mixes with the good he’s sucked up from Steve into a puddle on the street.

“I knew it.” Steve says. They’re panting into each other’s mouths. “You’re wearing lipstick. You taste like _lipstick_ , baby.”

 _Baby_. Billy’s heart stutters, skips a beat right outside of his chest when Steve sighs it like that.

Steve’s hands smooth down his neck, his shoulders, his arms, leaving goosebumps. Steve holds him by his hips to turn them around and presses Billy’s back to the side of the camaro and this time Billy doesn’t put up a fight. He lets Steve move him wherever he wants. He wraps his arms around Steve’s neck, aching, throbbing in his shorts. He wants to get off and to feel good. Two weeks of ignoring it or grinding against a pillow just doesn’t cut it.

Steve kisses his neck with light drops of closed pressed lips. Thumbs rub circles into his hip bones. The nails of his fingers bite into his back.

Steve presses his knee between Billy’s legs and Billy thinks for the first time in _weeks_ that _yes_ he can do this.

Steve nuzzles at Billy’s nape with his nose, Billy’s hands are tangled up in his hair and there’s no way anyone who gets a look at Steve won’t know he’s just gotten off with someone. Steve’s hands pause on the waistband of his shorts. One finger plays with the button of Billy’s fly.

“I really wanna touch you.” Steve says softly. He’s the first guy to ever say it without sounding ashamed or angry about it and Billy can hardly _breathe_. “Like, a lot,” Steve’s grip tightens, “ like _a whole fucking lot,_ but I don’t wanna piss you off or—get beer down my shorts again, so can you just tell me what to do to make you feel good, please?”

Steve _means it_ and it’s a rope around Billy’s neck, choking him, his throat tightens and he tries to swallow the knot lodged inside.

Billy doesn’t know what to say.

He’s got vague ideas. Fantasies he would never put into words. Magazines in the trunk of his camaro he pulls out sometimes when he’s desperate and feeling like there’s no ground to stand on.

And it’s _silly_. It _feels_ silly. Billy’s just flat out ridiculous and he knows it’s weird and that Steve doesn’t get it, but Steve hasn’t once looked at him like he’s as silly and ridiculous and weird as he feels. He hasn’t called him a freak.

Billy wonders what he looks like right now, if he measures up to Steve’s girlfriends, if Steve even thinks of him like that—Billy’s unsure if he wants him to.

Billy takes Steve’s right hand and places it between his legs before he can lose the nerve or that anger gets out first.

Says, with a confidence he doesn’t think he’ll ever really have, “like this,” and moves Steve’s hand so he’s cupping him through his shorts, rubbing him up and down, pushing at the heel of Steve’s hand.

“Yeah?” Steve says. Breathy and moving on his own, Billy hums out a _yes_ , wraps his arms around Steve’s neck, eyes slipping closed as his toes curl.

Steve kisses under his jaw, his ear. Tugs at Billy’s earring with his teeth and Billy’s _gone_. He’s always been gone when it comes Steve Harrington. The steady rhythm. The constant pressure of his hand that’s not rough, just firm and there and _careful_. Billy whimpers and bites his tongue to stop.

Steve wraps him up close, pushes him up against the camaro to tug at Billy’s hair while Steve keeps rubbing him gently, keeps him tucked in so close, Steve’s breath in his ear, Steve’s body pressing against all of him. Billy’s in his own world where there really isn’t anything other than _Steve_ and the heat between them.

“If I hadn’t been joking that night—“ Steve says, breathless, “would you be cool with that kind of thing?”

_you wanna be my girl, Hargrove?_

It’s mean for Steve to bring it up now and get Billy’s hopes up like that. He’s refused to think about it since Steve said it, but the words have always been there in the quiet.

 _if you hadn’t been joking_ is just another thing Billy can’t admit to because wanting dumb preps is his thing these days and it’s better to keep what’ll hurt the most to himself.

Except Steve’s soft. He’s _decent_. He’s not Neil. He’s not the guy at the pier.

Billy comes hard, thighs squeezing Steve’s hand and Steve presses more and more, doesn’t let up until Billy’s clawing at his back, hissing in his ear, shaking into pieces outside the Wheeler house.

When Steve pulls his hand away, Billy’s trembling. His shorts are soaked through. There’s no way he’s going to be able to hide it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com)


	5. Root Beer

The baseball game comes out of nowhere like when Steve was ten and it was summer and the nights never came early, the afternoon stretching out till every inch of the town was painted in fading orange light, playing till it was dark.

Back then the kids in Hawkins had nothing better to do. There was no arcade. No mall. Girls had cooties. Dating wasn’t a _thing_ yet. They came together daily and played baseball in one of the fields owned by one of the farmers who didn’t mind a bunch of boys running around on their dried up dirt.

Sundown tasted like sweet pop and felt like sweat tacky on the skin. Steve had loved summer, even though it was humid and his hair never could handle it and his parents took their vacations without him.

Steve never expected a game like this to happen again now that he’s older and has a job and understands that _adulthood_ means having his insides ground down and scooped into a waffle cone by life. Sometimes he’d get sprinkles. A lot of the times he’d just drop the whole damn cone.

Tommy’s ringing him and then Steve’s knocking on the Hargrove’s front door, sweat on his palms, asking Mrs. Hargrove if Billy can come out to play.

He’s blushing while he says it and Mrs. Hargrove looks at him like he’s _a touch_ slow.

It’s Billy’s fault for refusing to give Steve his number after Steve gave him his. That’s a very specific kind of assholery Billy takes a shine to and Steve always seems to bite.

Mrs. Hargrove isn’t wrong. Steve _is_ a touch slow. He’s been punched in the face by dumb lately.

Most of the guys playing are the boys Steve grew up with and played with on the same field years ago. Some of the boys moved away. Some of the guys moved here after they all hit puberty. Steve’s not sure who brought the bat or the baseball, but they’re all here now.

Nostalgia hits hard and Steve’s chest clenches tight.

Tommy’s even tolerable giving Steve a drink from his Coca-Cola without a fuss. Steve doesn’t get the urge to run him over with his beemer more than twice in the last hour.

The two of them are in the outfield, sitting on the dirt, elbows on their knees, head to toe covered in the dust from the field made slick by their sweat, the sun peeking out over the tree line of the forest to glare in their eyes.

Steve’s not entirely sure what team he’s on. It seems like anyone who wants to bat can bat and anyone who wants to be on base just has to be the quickest to claim it.

Home base is a piece of a tire. First a pop bottle. Second’s the biggest rock two guys could pick up and drop into position. Third’s a gopher hole.

Steve had managed to hit the ball once, making it to second base before he was tagged. He’d gotten two skinned shins for his trouble, blood turning his socks pink, but it had been _fun_ and he’s had worse.

Tommy had high-fived him. Billy had slapped his ass and told him to _buck up, sailor_.

They’re all kids again and part time jobs and college and getting hitched to make a family and grow up—none of that exists right now. Steve’s just ten with nothing to do on a Tuesday night in summer, just a list of books waiting for him back home that he’s _supposed_ to read and will only ever flip through on the morning of the first day back.

Billy’s up to bat.

Steve wipes his face off on the inside of his shirt and reigns in his attention from the slow heat to focus. Billy’s got his hair tied up and out of the way in that red scrunchie. A couple curls are loose and shine like gold next to the dirt smudged on his cheek. His earrings and rings catch the sunlight.

He’s grinning. Laughing at what some guy up next to bat says. He’s holding himself loose, but Steve can see he knows what he’s doing. Knows how to stand to hit a ball. In cutoffs, Billy’s thick thighs flex. In a crop top, his arms and stomach tense, muscles popping, ready for the pitch and to hit a home run.

He’s shining. Steve’s eyes hurt.

He sits up straighter, catching sight of the bruise peeking out from under the hem of Billy’s shorts. Billy’s not all that patient and always gets bitchy when Steve tries to draw it out, but Steve managed to keep Billy on edge for almost an entire half hour while he sucked and bit, getting friendly with the soft skin of Billy’s inner thighs.

He’d timed it with his watch. Billy had called him a nerd and then came on his face.

Out here in the sidelines of their makeshift diamond Steve can see the competitive _I’m gonna smoke all your asses_ glint in his blue eyes and Steve’s excited for him. There’re tingles in his fingers. Heart picking up and everything. He wants Billy to hit the ball so far out no one’s going to be able to find it and see how many of those pearly whites he can show.

Or he falls on his face.

Steve’s open to either, really. He’s just that kind of guy.

Billy taps the end of his bat on the dirt. Points to Steve. _Watch me make this ball fly, pretty boy_.

Steve laughs. Lost for that dumb, cocky move that’s the most Billy Hargrove thing Billy’s ever going to do.

Tommy gives him a look for it. Steve wipes his heat damp hair back. He’s going to have a sunburn by tomorrow and Billy will call him a tomato and poke at the most tender parts of him. Tommy’s eyes are still on him.

He knocks his shoulder into Steve’s.

“You think he’s gonna be able to get a hit with that limp wrist?” Tommy says under his breath, not taking any chance Billy might hear him, thinking _Steve_ wants to be on the receiving end of this. He’s got that dumb smile on his face like when he’s making fun of Carol who’s just out of earshot.

Used to be, Steve made jokes like this too. He takes back those nice feelings he had for Tommy. He wishes he hadn’t ridden his bike to the field. The beemer would be handy right now. Running a guy over in a Schwinn isn’t going to send the same message as the brunt end of a car.

Steve never sees the first pitch.

Billy never actually gets to swing for the first pitch.

The pitcher never even gets to throw that first ball because Steve’s socking Tommy in the jaw which is just about the most awkward thing to do with your left hand when you’re a righty and when you’re both on the ground, but Steve’s no pansy and his wrist is anything but limp when he makes impact and then there’s more hands and more punches and a few kicks thrown in and Steve remembers maybe there’s a reason outside of school and _responsibilities_ that they all stopped playing ball together like this once they grew up.

A dust storm is kicked up. Steve gets a couple more good shots at Tommy. He thinks it’s Tommy. Everyone starts to blur together in this mass of pent up Hawkins frustration.

He can hear Billy cackling when he joins in. Limp wrist and all, Billy’s a terror when it comes to bareknuckle fighting.

Afterwards, Steve and Billy are at the pharmacy downtown, sitting at the counter. Both of them covered in dirt and blood that’s not all their own, trailing dust when they move, getting dirty looks from the soda jerk and being served anyways. Steve’s parents own half the buildings around here. Best not to piss off their only kid they sometimes remember.

Billy orders a chocolate malt. Steve goes with strawberry and insists on paying. Billy puts up a fight about it and Steve’s half sure he’s about to just up and leave, but he settles when Steve puts a hand on his shoulder. He almost growls when he’s pissed and then shifts to get this pretty pouty look on his face when he knows he’s not going to win against Steve.

Billy’s cutoffs are so tight Steve knows he doesn’t have his wallet with him and he’s just being stubborn. Steve orders him a side of fries and eats half of them.

The malt feels good on his hot skin. Steve moans a little and earns himself a huff from Billy who’s doing the same thing, pressing his shredded knuckles to the glass.

They catch each other’s reflection in the mirror behind the counter and start to laugh. Steve ends up having strawberry shoot up and out of his nose.

Steve’s got the beginnings of a black eye. Billy’s got a split lip and blood crusting under his nose and as pleased as can be about it.

Steve knocks his knee into Billy’s and holds it there, Billy’s skin warm against his own, burning right through him. Billy stays still, not pulling away or pushing Steve off his stool. They’re two scraped knees cozying up to each other in public. _The indecency of it all,_ his mom would say.

Billy’s gone rosy, freckles standing out after all that sun and in the heat of his blush. A bit shy.

Billy plucks the cherry off Steve’s malt. Steve watches through the mirror as Billy slides the cherry between his swelling bruised lips and bites it off its stem.

—

Hopper’s at the Strongman game with Jane and it’s not like Steve expected to run into them or anyone to do with the Upside Down side of things he’s not thinking about at all anymore. It’s just that most of Hawkins is at the fair any given day. Inevitable, that’s what it is, to run into someone he knows. He was just hoping he wouldn’t.

He came with Billy and the intent to not exactly try to impress him so much as just eat some deep fried food and splurge on as much cotton candy as his paycheck would let him and maybe win a shitty prize he won’t have the heart to throw away.

Billy might as well be here for that.

Steve had been very careful to not make it sound like he was asking Billy out on a date. People who _like_ each other date. All they are are two guys hanging out at the fair where _everyone_ is already and possibly going on the ferris wheel later if _one of them_ can just _chill_ for like two entire seconds.

Friends can go on the ferris wheel together, Steve reasons. It’s definitely a thing. If it isn’t, Billy can just shut up about it and keep it to himself.

Steve’s hanging back, so Billy is too. He gives a quick wave to Jane and Hopper when they spot him. He _kind of_ knows them and it feels like one of those moments where he should wave. It’d be impolite _not_ to wave to the people you’ve been in the shit with, it doesn’t matter if it’s awkward and he feels like he’s been caught.

As far as Steve knows, neither Hopper or Jane know Billy. They know what he _did_ , but they’ve never met him. He thinks Billy would’ve said something. They’ve gone from _strictly dick touching_ to _having a conversation and not necessarily getting off every time_.

Jane goes first, scoring thirty. She gets a high five and a hug from Hopper. Steve adds his own _whoop_ and Billy snorts and calls him a _dork_ not at all under his breath.

Hopper slams the mallet down scoring 100 and the bell at the top of the Strongman game rings, all the lightbulbs along the sides light up, a song starts playing. Jane is jumping and cheering, so are the people waiting in line.

Hopper hands over the prize he wins to Jane. A stuffed lion nearly as big as Hopper.

Steve glances at Billy. He’s eating the cotton candy Steve had to buy for him after he lost whac-a-mole two to one, but he’s chewing slow, hand paused in mid air with a puff of cotton candy pinched between his fingers staring at Hopper with this look Steve’s seen plenty of times, been on the receiving end of most of those times right before he’s tearing open a condom wrapper and getting Billy’s legs hiked up on his shoulders.

It sets something off in Steve he hasn’t really experienced since Nancy, makes him want to puff his chest out and flex his muscles, say to Billy _look at me look at me look at me and don’t look at anyone else_.

Silly. Stupid. Just. A lot of stupid. Billy’s not about to fuck Hopper, Steve knows that. He’s dumb as a rock sometimes, but he knows enough about Hopper that Billy doesn’t exactly have a chance with him. It’d be going out on a line Billy can’t come back from if he did try for it.

Steve doesn’t want to put himself on a pedestal, but he’s pretty sure when it comes to options out here in who-fucking-cares Hawkins, Steve’s his one and only.

Steve reaches out and snaps the red scrunchie Billy’s wearing on his wrist today to get his attention and without a word gets in line for the Strongman game with only Billy’s sharp, raised eyebrow following him.

The wooden mallet must weigh twenty pounds all on its own. Steve doesn’t let it show on his face that it weighs anything at all, not with Billy standing there, just to his right, arms crossed with all his focus hotter than any midday sun on Steve.

He’s feeling a little foolish—Billy and Hopper? _please_ , but when he takes one look at Billy biting his lip that’s about to split right back open, eyes gone dark—it’s all the push Steve needs to bring that mallet down as hard as he can.

He scores 70. Not _bad_. Not 100 either. Definitely no stuffed lion in Steve’s future.

Steve’s hands are humming from the kickback of the mallet. Billy’s looking him up and down. Checking him out, right where anyone could see, about to eat Steve alive right here and Steve can’t help but strut a little.

“You trying to impress me?” Billy says.

“Maybe.” Steve shrugs. “Did I?”

“You’re a goddamn Hercules, you know that, Harrington?” Billy bumps their shoulders together. Calling Steve Hercules—it’s one of the nicest things Billy’s ever said to him, right up there with _why the fuck is your dick so good?_ Steve wants to kiss him and then keep kissing him.

But he can’t. Billy can be as pretty as any girl here and they’d still be in Indiana.

Steve’s not great at keeping the line, though. He says fuck it. The fair is crowded. No one’s looking at them. They’re just friends who don’t much like each other. Nothing different. Regular, average teens with nothing to do on a Tuesday afternoon.

He leans in over the cotton candy. One of Billy’s curls brushes along the bridge of his nose. Steve wants to wraps his fingers in all that blond and tug.

Steve whispers, “am I making you wet, baby?”

Billy bites his lip, startled. Eyes flickering around to make sure no one’s listening.

Catching Billy off guard, nudging at his tender spots where he’s shy, getting to take a peek into that sweetness he usually doesn’t let Steve see unless Steve’s inside him—it gets Steve high and hard and all kinds of things he’s not going to think about.

“Maybe.” Billy says, letting Steve see a flash of that pleased smile—small and not quite able to look at him fully—before Billy’s pushing passed him and leading the way to the next game.

Steve’s lit up inside, electricity running through his pulse.

He’s forgotten all about Billy’s number one rule and spends a good few, wonderful seconds watching him walk away.

Steve breathes out through his nose and thinks about the slime on that dead demodog’s body and will’s himself to not pitch his own tent right here.

Billy would just laugh at him. He likes to watch Steve struggle.

The fair is on a big grassy field, out of the way even for Hawkins, with a spotless blue sky overhead. There’s a constant breeze carrying the sweet and salty scent from the food vendors.

Billy’s aviators are on his head, curls soft and flowing in that breeze. More freckles than he had yesterday. Lips shining in the sunlight, sparkling in the way that says whatever flavor he’s got on is going to take up Steve’s thoughts for the entire day.

They compete at every booth they stop at. The ring toss game is more intense than taking shots at otherworld monsters with a bat at midnight and Steve ends up breaking into a sweat when they’re tied and he’s on his last throw with Billy breathing down his neck and being dumb and distracting with his cotton candy breath.

Bumper cars is an ordeal that shows Billy may suck his dick on the regular, but he’s got no problem giving Steve whiplash.

The carousel race gets them both kicked off the carousel. It’s definitely Billy’s fault.

Steve gets back at Billy with darts and his most well thought out bet involving a stick of deep fried butter. Billy manages one bite and has to spit it out. Steve’s never seen him gag before.

He rubs Billy’s back for longer than any two friends should, but Billy doesn’t tell Steve to stop and Steve’s a greedy fuck when it comes to touching Billy’s sun soaked skin so he wanders around between Billy’s shoulders and down his spine.

Steve _finally_ finds the one game he’s better at than Billy _by far_ \--the Duck Shoot. He wins a cheap plastic necklace and experiences the most joy any person in the entire world can experience pointing out what Billy’s doing wrong with the gun and then correcting his hold.

Steve hasn’t shot a BB gun since he was a kid, but he’s got the basics down enough to be better at it than _city slicker_ Billy.

Steve takes advantage of the tight space in the booth and leans in close, forgetting where they are. Indiana isn’t even a state, Steve’s pretty sure, and Hawkins might as well not exist on the map.

He just _doesn’t_ care. There are things to actually care about and what people think isn’t one of them and Billy smells _so good_ right now. It’s driving Steve nutty.

Steve puts his hands on Billy’s arms, his shoulders. Gets close enough he could easily count the individual freckles on Billy’s face and can see the pink-ish shine of his lips and spot the specks of green in the blue when Billy blinks slowly up at him with his thick lashes.

He risks Billy pushing him away, but Billy’s just rolling his eyes at him when he takes his next shot and _actually_ hits the target this time thanks to Steve. There’s a slight kickback from the gun, pushing Billy’s backside into Steve. The heat makes everything slow and dream like.

Steve backs up. He’s teasing himself when he can’t afford to.

Steve watches as Billy nails the ducks in the head for the rest of his shots, though Steve’s attention isn’t really focused on where Billy’s aiming. His eyes slip down and down—when Billy shoots his ass does this little _bounce_. Almost a _jiggle_. Steve pays for another round and ignores the smirk Billy’s giving him.

Billy knows he has a good ass. Probably why he’s wearing those shorts. And knows Steve’s panting after him. Nothing new there. Like. If they were’t in public, Steve would be skinning his knees all over again from how fast he’d be on the ground getting right up in there.

He’s in love with Billy’s ass. He is. It’s not even a _might_ anymore. Would it be weird to get flowers for a guy’s ass? Billy would think it was weird, but he thinks Steve is weird already, might as well play it up, really commit.

Billy takes another shot. Steve sighs happily at the view.

Who’s idea was the fair anyways—why didn’t Billy tell him to fuck off?

Steve tries to decide at what point he should grab Billy and hightail it out of here so Steve can get those shorts off and lose his mind in private instead of in front of half the town.

“Steve—hello? Are you listening? You in there buddy?” It’s Dustin.

_It’s Dustin._

Steve’s startled out of his daily Billy Hargrove induced daze.

Dustin’s holding three kazoos and a giant tub of popcorn and still manages to do a one hand version of their handshake. He can hear Billy laughing at them—mostly at Steve.

Dustin side eyes Billy, giving him a dirty look. Billy, once he wipes the tears out of his eyes, says to the little metal ducks he’s about to shoot, _christ, you’re such a fucking nerd, Harrington_.

Steve ignores him and says, “hey? What’s up? Sorry.”

“Is it the sun? The heat?” Dustin closes in on him, searching him for something. “Are you having heatstroke right now? It’s important to stay hydrated.”

“I think I’m good?”

Billy yells _fuck yeah, that’s how you do it_. Steve keeps his eyes on Dustin who had seen him watching Billy and Steve hadn’t been trying to hide how he looked at him. He’d stared and Dustin had caught him red handed. He’d been obvious and he might not care, but it’s not exactly a good thing to be caught doing. He wouldn’t be _caught_ if it was okay and it’s not.

Out of all the little nerds, he thinks Dustin might be one of the most likely to call him out on what he’s doing with Billy and the least likely to give him too much shit about it.

He can’t exactly picture Dustin calling him a fag.

Dustin calling _Billy_ one, though.

Dustin tugs him a little further away from the booth and Steve gets a face full of _pissed off thirteen year old who thinks he’s an adult_. Dustin whispers all too loudly, “you guys are— _friends?_ ”

“I mean.” And that’s all Steve can think to say.

“Since when did the rules to the game change?” Popcorn goes flying as Dustin talks. “Billy Hargrove is bad, must avoid at all costs, critical damage imminent. Say no to Billy.”

“You need to get outside more.”

“He’s a dick, Steve.”

“Who isn’t though?”

“You aren’t.” Dustin eyes Billy again and Steve’s starting to sweat even more, uneasiness creeping up on him. The kid is sweet. Steve’s not. “He’s wearing a _girl’s scrunchie._ It’s—it’s _you know_.”

As if there were any other kind of scrunchie.

Steve frowns, crossing his arms. Dustin isn’t Tommy.

“And you wear the same hat every day, so?”

Dustin grabs the visor of his hat, adjusting it.

“My hat’s cool.” Dustin mumbles.

Steve’s the biggest dick in history.

“Yeah, it is. Sorry.”

Dustin shuffles his feet and Steve keeps his eyes on him, knows if he looks back at Billy, Billy will know what they’re talking about and the last thing this _talk_ needs is Billy’s temper.

Dustin doesn’t have a car to key.

“So you’re really friends with that guy? After all the shit he did?”

“He’s—“ _better_. There’s no way Dustin’s going to buy that. Billy’s better, but he’s still an asshole and that’s all Dustin is going to focus on.

“Just—are you friends with him or not?”

“It’s complicated?”

Dustin’s chewing at his lip. He’s about to explode. Steve’s gut sinks. Nothing’s ever easy.

“What?” Steve says.

“Max sort of told us something and—“ Dust waves his hands around. “She said not to tell anyone, but you’re part of the party so you’re not just _anyone_ and if you’re _friends_ with him you should know—“

Steve stops him. Puts his hand on his shoulder and breathes in the scent of the fair that had been so charged and nice two minutes ago before reality had to slap him in the face. Now it’s too salty. Too sweet. The humidity is going to make him choke.

“Dustin. Buddy.” Steve says as nice as he can. “Little dipshit dude. I don’t care.”

“But.”

“Dustin.”

“ _Steve._ ”

“ _Dustin._ ”

“I think this is a pretty important thing you should know.”

“I just wanna eat corndogs and deep fried oreos and, like, enjoy summer, you know? And I don’t care. Like at all, man.” Steve claps Dustin on the back. Smushes his hat on his head. Emphasizes as much as he can without actually having to say the words that he _does not want to hear it and, also, he could not care less_.

The conversation ends with a promise to meet up later at the arcade—just Steve. Dustin makes a point to say _he_ isn’t invited.

The fair isn’t so dreamy after that. The sweet and salty scent makes his stomach queasy. There are so many people here. All these couples. A boy and a girl. A man and a woman. A husband and his wife. They’re everywhere, holding hands. Kissing. Laughing together.

Steve’s too aware of how close he stands to Billy and how he looks at Billy. He doesn’t care, but Dustin had seen something—Steve is being stupid.

He’s wrapping his arms around himself, the ground underneath him has shifted and he realizes he’s different. He’s been different ever since the first time Billy had touched him.

Then Billy shoves a stuffed— _something_ —into his hands.

Whatever it is looks like a walrus. Big and round and possibly purple with tusks or maybe they’re legs. The eyes are wonky and Steve goes cross-eyed making eye contact with it.

“Um.” Steve says. He’s really the dumbest. If he has a brain in his head, he’d be shocked. So would his parents. He should have listened to his dad.

“It’s for you, asswank.” Billy says. He rolls his eyes, trying to act like he doesn’t give a fuck and he gives Steve odd little stuffed animals all the time, it’s normal, it’s what they do, but Steve sees how red his cheeks are getting the longer Steve says nothing and watches him with Billy’s attention _not at all_ on Steve, but on the booth to his left.

Steve smiles. He presses their shoulders together. Touches the back of Billy's hand and feels the heat run through him, blushing hard. Hugs the maybe-walrus to his chest.

“We’re going on the ferris wheel—shut up." Steve says, "We’re going on the ferris wheel, it’s happening. Let’s do this.”

—

An hour before closing, there’s this slump between customers at Scoops Ahoy.

Robin’s sitting on the counter, kicking her feet in the air and staring and thinking who knows what.

Steve’s spending this blissful, quiet time deflating as a person and flopping onto the ground behind the counter where no one will see him so he can reflect and meditate on _how easy it was for Billy to give him something while Steve’s been sitting on a growing pile of makeup and jewelry he’s bought and has been too chickenshit to give to Billy_ like his mom has always suggested he do because, you know, _anxiety isn’t an attractive trait to have, Steven_.

“So,” Robin says. She’s never the one to talk first or break the quiet. It’s Steve’s job to put in effort. “What happened to your whole—“ she circles her finger around her face, “—you trip a few dozen times over your clown feet or something?”

Steve glances at his shoes then at the scabs covering his shins. He pokes at the tender, heated skin of his black eye. The manager had not been happy with him when he came into work. He’d been written up. Whatever.

“No?” Steve says.

“Then what? You get in a brawl? Do they even have fights here? It’s so boring.”

Steve shrugs, uncomfortable with Robin suddenly _talking_ to him.

“A little fight.”

“With Malibu Barbie?”

Steve cranks his neck up and it’s an awkward angle and hurts, but he has to stare at her, dumb and confused when he sees her looking back at him, waiting for an answer.

What he knows about Robin isn’t much. She says she’s from Tennessee one week and the next it’s Nevada. Just yesterday she tells him _I never lived anywhere, I just exist in your head_ giving Steve the heebie jeebies. She loves Madonna the most. One time she hooked up with an older guy who was _a total Betty_. Mint chocolate chip is the only flavor ice cream she nibbles on. She barely reacts when she comes.

She’s close lipped. She doesn’t initiate conversations. Asking Steve questions she wants to hear the answer to isn’t her thing.

Robin’s about as apathetic a person as Billy pretends to be and Steve tries to be.

Steve may have been inside her for half a flick, but that means jack. At least, it didn’t until now.

“Malibu Barbie?” Steve says because his life is going so swell.

“You and the hunky blond who’s always here? On your shift?” She says, not rolling her eyes at him. It would take too much effort.

Steve shakes his head. “No. We’re—we didn’t fight. I mean, we did. Together. Not against each other. We were fighting other people.” Steve coughs. “Yeah.”

“So you guys are still, you know?”

“Still what?”

“You know.”

“I don’t?”

“Dude,” Robin says, “ _you know._ ”

Robin does this _thing_ with her eyebrows then bumps her fists together when Steve clearly isn’t getting it. Steve watches her do it five times before it _clicks_ in his head, then a switch is flipped and he’s never played it cool before in his life.

He jumps into panic with both feet and a lot of enthusiasm.

“What? _What?_ No. I don’t.” Steve’s stumbling over his words. He’s off the floor and pacing the small space behind the counter, willing _anyone_ to come by and ask for a scoop of every flavor. Hell, if Tommy stopped by he’d give the idiot a discount. “What are you even talking about?” Steve snorts.

Robin levels the flattest stare at him.

“Well, that was a normal reaction.”

“I’m _normal_.”

“Didn’t say you weren’t.” Robin says. She starts to kick her feet again. “It’s okay, man.”

“I don’t even like him.” Steve says to the tub of chocolate ice cream. “He’s the worst. Like, the literal worst?”

It comes out as a question. It’s not supposed to be a question.

Billy _is_ the worst. Just a fact. As sure as Steve’s wearing blue shorts right now that Tom Selleck would be jealous of, Billy is the bottom of the barrel when it comes to the worst of the worst.

“Dude.”

“He hates me.” Steve starts over. “I definitely hate him.”

“Oh, so you guys go in the back room to hate each other?” Robin nods. “I get that.”

“No. But, I just. Like. _Like_.” Steve says. Waves his hands around. Stops himself at the pointed look she sends his way. It’s not mean. It’s not a look he’d expect from the girl he fingered a couple of days ago.

Steve goes through the names in his head, every one he’s heard his dad mutter not quite under his breath while he reads the paper or watches the news, preparing himself for _one_ of them to come flying out of Robin’s mouth.

He reminds himself he doesn’t care. There are bigger and scarier things than being found out.

“I wanted to freak you out, but not like give you a panic attack. It’s just some dick, man.”

The day’s gone weird.

On his break Steve had sneezed in Billy’s face and Billy had said _bless you_ like he’s _polite_ and then kissed Steve so long Steve had gone five minutes over.

Steve’s still reeling from it.

Tommy was just being a jackass, making the same joke he’s made millions of times before.

Getting called out on being Billy’s friend had set him on edge.

This isn’t how Steve pictured he’d be found out.

There’s no yelling. No one’s throwing _queer_ in his face. His dad isn’t red faced and spitting in Steve’s face while his mom stands in the hallway, slouched over in disappointment.

Robin’s just bored.

“Relax. It’s okay. We’ve all seen his abs.” Robin shrugs. “I get it.”

Steve can’t really relax though. The _no one knows_ rule just gone blown to pieces. It’s the number one rule. It’s _the_ rule. The _only_ rule that’s never changed or been dropped.

Billy’s going to kill him. Or break it off with him, permanently. Steve has no idea when Billy cutting him off became worse than someone finding out.

“I’m so fucked.” Steve tells her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that H&M photoshoot with Dacre fucked me up bad, y'all. my [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com)~


	6. Butterfly Pink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for yolo_contendre who helped me untangle my thoughts and for being one of the sweetest, most supportive people ever.

Billy tells Steve to hang out at the pool until his shift is over.

_Not like you have anything else going on._

Billy flicks Steve’s shirt when he says it. Presses his finger down Steve’s chest. Takes a drag from his joint and blows it into Steve’s open mouth instead of kissing him.

They’re standing out back by the dumpster. Shoulders pressed together. Backs to the bricks. Warm skin on warm skin. Billy smells like sunscreen and hairspray and cheap weed he bought off Tommy.

It’s eleven in the morning. Billy’s shift isn’t over until closing, meaning Steve has hours of heavy heat ahead of him.

Billy bossing him around is what Billy likes to do. Steve likes it too. This time, though, he’s gone off script. Shy. Wears a smile that’s cocky, the usual kind of _in your face_ expression meant to be as obnoxious as possible when he starts saying shit, but it doesn’t stick.

It’s not as mean as it should be.

Voice wavers at the end. Flips it into a question only Steve can hear. Can spot the cracks Billy’s trying to cover up with his flashy, bright grin. Big blue eyes look up under dark lashes at Steve, a little too wide and unsure. Missing the landing completely and they both know it.

Steve’s in his jeans. New pair of Nikes. A _Miami Vice_ shirt because it’s Billy’s favorite show. Today’s his day off. Today was supposed to be Billy’s short day. He’s got enough money in his wallet for two movie tickets at the local theater and the biggest tub of popcorn and isn’t expecting to spend any of it.

He spent the drive here talking himself down from the ledge, like that’s going to make a difference.

Back in high school, Steve used to make girls wait for him by the bleachers or his car or at the pharmacy on Main. Found it cute how eager they’d be to see him by the time he’d show up. The way their faces would light up as soon as he appeared. Like she thought he was a no-show then— _there he is!_ Saving the day and whisking her off her feet.

Used to be a sure-fire way of getting laid. At least a hand-job when he drove her home. Make her wait for it and she’ll be happy to give it up.

Billy’s right. Steve’s got nothing better to do today. It’s true. It’s annoying that it’s true and that Billy’s right. Billy’s the most interesting part of any day. All Steve’s got going for him is a couch and TV waiting for him back home.

The kids have even dumped him. His walkie talkie’s been silent for weeks now. He’s assuming the world’s not ending, that nothing funny is happening. Thinks he’d get a head’s up if that were happening. Could be the kids put two and two together with what Max told them and are avoiding Steve now too.

Might as well spend the day relaxing by the pool and staring at Billy for hours on end while he gets cooked. It’s better than being home alone. At least here has a purpose outside of slinging ice cream.

Look at Billy. Wait for Billy. Kiss Billy. Ask Billy to see _St. Elmo’s Fire_ with him—maybe. Probably not. He has a closet full of presents. His mom thinks he has a girlfriend. Keeps pushing his grandma’s ring at him like getting married will solve his problems and turn him into a son she can show off to her girlfriends.

He can’t even ask Billy to go to the movies without overthinking it. Can’t give him anything because he knows it’ll just go down bad. Not yet. Maybe soon. Maybe Steve’s just an idiot.

Steve has all day to figure it out which it is.

So he presses closer to Billy. Holds the smoke inside and blows it out. Feels a little better with a slight buzz, the rough edges of his life get rounded out. Billy’s hair is inching past his shoulders, not really a mullet anymore so much as it is just _long_ with curls on top of more curls.

Aviators sit on top of his head with the sun glancing off them. Eyes bright, glaring out at the trees. Hawkins is nothing but trees. _Trees make you stupid,_ is what Billy says when he’s missing California and Steve’s not enough to distract him.

Billy has a tattoo of a smoking skull. Said, _ain’t that shit rad as fuck, Harrington?_ when he showed it off to Steve, still pink and swollen. Fresh from the parlor the next town over.

Billy’s dad hates it. Billy’s happy about that. He’d been as pleased with himself as Steve’s ever seen him, _my dad freaked. It was awesome._

Steve had licked the flat of his tongue across it, made Billy hiss and cuss him out. Blew him afterwards to get him to calm down.

One day he didn’t have a tattoo and the next he did.

Steve has no idea when Billy turned eighteen. Isn’t surprised Billy never told him. Disappointed, but that’s Steve’s own fault.

“Sure. Yeah, all right.” Steve says.

Billy’s shit at covering up his surprise. The stare Steve gets is long, searching. That flashy grin goes lopsided. Soft.

“You’re gonna stay all day?” Billy says every word slow, hits Steve over the head with each of them.

Steve shrugs. Used to being treated like he’s dumb. He is. No college wants him. Barely made it to the finish line with high school. His parents took him to a specialist when he was a kid because he was going to be held back a year. Got diagnosed with something he can’t even remember the name of.

“I could use a tan.” He says.

Billy’s mouth twitches then he’s putting out his joint on the brick wall.

“Suit yourself.” Billy heads inside with stiff shoulders and not a glance Steve’s way.

It’s cute. _He’s cute_. Asking him out doesn’t seem so daunting in this moment, in the shade, standing by the dumpster. Scary, sure. But not, like, impossible.

—

Steve borrows a pair of trunks from Billy. They’re stiff and probably haven’t been washed all summer. It should make Steve cringe. Instead, he’s flushed as he puts them on. They’re Billy’s after all.

Stuffs his clothes into Billy’s locker and feels a weird twist of homeyness at having his clothes with Billy’s, his sneakers sitting side by side with Billy’s boots, at knowing Billy’s locker combination.

Steve slips on his ray-bans. Shares an awkward wave hello with Mrs. Wheeler that lasts a few seconds too long. Throws a towel on one of the few free lounge chairs that’s in the prime position of being under an umbrella and right across from where Billy’s going to be towering over everyone in his chair.

The pool’s already crowded. Kids are screaming. Adults are talking and laughing. The heat’s thick, cooking the cement, the water. Steve’s already sticking to the plastic of the chair. The place is full of happy and lively people. The strong scent of chlorine reminds him of long nights spent in his backyard, feet kicking small waves in the water, a beer can half-empty and body-warm, and blue reflected on his skin.

Out here, with the sun bright overhead, bouncing off the cement and the pool, turning people pink, it’s not so lonely as back home.

Steve lies back, arms folded under his head. Crosses his legs. Settles in for the wait.

Billy’s doesn’t make it easy.

—

Everyone who works at the community pool is an asshole. Just the charm of the place. Steve would’ve worked here too if he hadn’t uncorked his head from his own ass before senior year.

And they weren’t hiring anymore by the time Steve had scraped together his resume.

So.

_Whatever._

Billy fits in with the rest of the lifeguards. Rules the pool like a guy who shouldn’t be good at teaching tots to swim, but he is. Bans two kids in the first hour. Blows his whistle at three adult men and has no problem taking them all down a few notches. Enjoys it. Is proud his photograph on the _Meet Your Lifeguards_ board is the one most stolen.

Struts instead of walks, acts like he’s got a big dick and is all too happy to show it to anyone interested. Flirts with the line of moms who wait for him to come out, primping and soaking through their bathing suits that haven’t touched the water today.

When Billy’s at work his lips taste like chapstick. There’s no scrunchie. No bracelets. His earrings are tame. He’s put together tightly and sparingly, different from the messy, wrecked boy who keyed Steve’s car and came in Steve’s palm and let Steve kiss him goodnight till dawn.

He’s playing up _Billy Hargrove_. Putting on a show where he doesn’t have a dick and cunt between his legs and doesn’t get flushed when Steve calls him _sweetheart_.

Here, he’s the Billy Hargrove everyone thinks they know from looking at him and hearing the hundreds of stories he’s earned about him after not even a year in Hawkins. The tough guy who’ll fuck the prettiest girl at the party and isn’t about to bend over for anyone.

Steve gets it the worst. Even worse than the kid who drops a chocolate fudge bar in the water two feet in front of Billy and that kid _cried_.

Billy blows his whistle at Steve for running when he’s walking.

Barks at Steve when he’s in the water for _loitering_.

Gets a life buoy thrown at his head when he _does_ try to swim.

Gives him four citations. Swimming haphazardly. Being a menace. Public endangerment.

The last one is just a drawing of a dick with an arrow pointed to it that tells him the dick is Steve.

Steve’s not all that sure about most things in his life right now. Things are complicated and confusing and he’s turned on all of the time it feels like he can’t even think most days. But he’s damn sure Billy’s the only lifeguard to give out written warnings _ever_.

Steve crumples the last one and throws it in Billy’s face.

Not the best move. Billy threatens to ban him for the rest of his _redneck life_. It’s bone deep satisfying, nearly gives him a hard-on. Steve tries to rationalize what Billy’s doing. Who he’s pretending to be. There’s being a dick and then there’s being a dick to the guy you’ve been fucking all summer.

It’s the same old shit.

Nothing new.

Except Steve doesn’t have the kids as an excuse to be here and he’s here _all day_.

Billy makes a point to call him out anytime Steve _breathes_. Grins when Steve flips him off and talks back.

It’s high school all over again. Steve’s the only one to call Billy on his shit. Maybe ever. In Billy’s kingdom, Steve sticks out like a sore thumb. Makes him feel like the biggest idiot, like Steve’s been living an entirely different summer from Billy’s.

Any thoughts of trying to keep things normal, to pretend Robin doesn’t know, that the kids don’t either, that Max isn’t talking her mouth off about Billy and who Billy really is and that Billy won’t lose his shit when Steve tells him because the pin is out of the grenade already and it’s just a matter of _when_ and he has to tell Billy, can’t let him be blindsided, _he has to—_

The thoughts, all of them, just disappear.

Billy scorches Steve’s already few brain cells with one look across the pool and a dozen other people that don’t exist in their world worse than the summer sun and the humidity combined. Leaves him lightheaded. Brain going on the fritz.

They can’t hold hands. They can’t do shit in public. Steve cares and he doesn’t.

—

Billy’s sitting on his chair, aviators on and his necklace slipping out the front of his white tank top, talking to Curt, the manager.

Steve knows all the lifeguards by name without having to look at the pinned photos on the board. Has talked to most of them since he’s started dropping by the pool. They see him talking to Billy and assume he’s one of them. A cool guy. The popular senior turned graduate. _King Steve_.

Heather calls him that. _Hey, King Steve_ or _What’s the happenin’, King Steve?_ whenever they pass each other. There’s a quirk to her mouth that says she’s laughing at him.

Steve can’t quite wrap his head around the idea of Billy talking to anyone about him. Kickstarts expectations. Hopes. Like a stuffed hippo won at the fair sitting on the dashboard of his car. Steve’s setting himself up to get his heart broken.

So he goes for another swim. Gets whistled at. His skin gets a little more pink. Eats a popsicle. Cherry flavored. Then another. Eats seven more, staining his fingers and lips red. Feels tacky and too warm. Melting and trying to stay together.

Curt says _something_ and Billy’s laughing. One of those _throws his head back_ kind of laughs. Curt’s hand is on Billy’s arm. His bare arm. Right over the skull tattoo.

Chrissy had been a nonstarter. Never a real option. Neither was Hopper.

Curt though.

Steve tries not to think about it too hard. It’s summer. The three months of the year he’s supposed to fuck around without a care. He’s got his whole future ahead of him. He won’t be at Scoops Ahoy forever.

He’ll move out of Hawkins and put everything in this town behind him. Billy will too. Billy will leave. One day he’ll be here and the next—he’ll be gone.

Curt keeps talking to Billy. His hand is still _on_ Billy. Billy’s not shrugging him off. Billy hadn’t shrugged Chrissy off either, but Curt’s got abs and a dick and _his arm around Billy’s shoulders._

Billy’s looking at him. Grinning at him.

Then Curt’s walking away. Claps Billy on the arm. Billy climbs back on his chair.

Steve lies back on the lounge chair, hands on his stomach, drumming his fingers over what’s going to be a gut if he doesn’t get himself together soon. Needs to layoff on the ice cream. Watches Billy yell at someone who isn’t him.

He watches Curt too.

Curt walks the pool. Goes back to the building. Comes back out. Talks to Billy. Walks the pool. Back inside. Back outside. Talks to Billy. Not Heather. Not Freddy. Just Billy.

And Billy talks back is the thing. It’s a big thing. It’s the biggest thing. It makes Steve’s hands curl into fists. He’s got enough fight in his chest right now to slam that hammer and hit 100 easily.

Curt’s a year older than Steve. He had P.E. with Curt. During a game of dodgeball, Steve had nailed Curt in the face with a ball. Square in the face. Broke his nose. There’d been blood everywhere. Coach had to knock Curt’s nose back into place. It’s still bent to the left.

The next time Curt is about to come back outside to walk the pool and round his way to Billy, Steve intercepts him, gets to Billy first. Leans on the lifeguard chair, feet nearly burning on the wet cement. Fiddles around with the antenna of Billy’s radio.

“Keep doing that and I’ll ban your ass, Harrington.” Billy says with a stick of gum halfway to his mouth. Billy chews gum like he’s pissed off at it and is eating its young. Tugs one chewed up end out between his teeth, spins it around his finger. Every girl Steve’s gotten head from does that. Billy’s the best at it.

Steve keeps messing with the radio. “Don’t you ever listen to anything other than the sound of two trashcans smashing into each other?”

“And what does King Steve know about good music?” Billy kicks Steve’s hand away. Steve catches himself before he grabs Billy’s foot.

“I know Elvis is the actual king and Metallica is balls.”

Billy laughs loud and abruptly, gets a few stares from the regulars. Steve’s proud of himself. Catches Curt’s eye when he comes out, sees him change directions and start up a conversation with Heather.

Steve has never felt so smug. Stands a little taller, puffing his chest out a little more. Flexes his arms a little.

“Lookin’ a lil too much like a tomato there, Harrington.” Billy pushes his aviators back on top of his head. Chucks a tube of sunscreen at Steve.

Steve catches it. Pops it open, squirts a dollop on his fingers and starts smearing it on his face.

“It’s called an Indiana Tan, thank you very much.” Steve says.

“If that’s true I’m dunking my head underwater on my next break and I’m not coming back up.”

—

Steve’s the last one at the pool who _doesn’t_ work there. Billy tells him to go ahead of him and wash up, _I got shit I gotta do._ A few looks are thrown his way from Heather and Freddy. Curt sticks his chin out at him. Steve’s good at rolling with it.

Steve showers. The cold water feels amazing on his sunburn. Uses Billy’s soap and comb. Changes back into his old clothes. He’s sitting on one of the locker room benches, tying his shoes, when Billy and Curt come in. Both of them head into the showers. Only Billy has a towel. Billy sticks his tongue out at Steve when he walks by him.

It’s _a while_ before Curt comes out, walks past Steve like Steve doesn’t exist.

Billy has the shower curtain drawn closed. Steve knocks on the stall wall twice. Peaks inside only to get a quick flash of tan skin all the way down and have Billy flick water at him, hits him in the eye. Steve gets the message.

Steve tells the curtain, “you know, it’s not safe to shower all alone this time of night.”

“Oh yeah? You gonna protect me, pretty boy?”

“You know it, babe.” Steve says. Bangs his head lightly on the stall. Keeps his head pressed to the metal. Only god know’s what he’s doing anymore and even he’s up there shaking his head at Steve. The steam rolling out from the shower is sharp on his sunburnt skin. Steve’s got heatstroke. A pain in his chest. It’s the only reason he says, “do you let him kiss you?”

“What?”

“Do you let Curt—does he get to kiss you too?”

“The fuck are you— _Curt?_ ” The water cuts off. The curtain is yanked back. Billy has a towel tied around his waist. Lip drawn up in a snarl. “Curt. Did you just— _Curt?_ ”

Fresh from the shower, Billy’s skin is a soft pink. His curls soaked and dark, framing his face. Lashes thicker with water clinging to them. Freckles that sprinkle down from his cheeks and nose to his neck, his shoulders. Wide shoulders. Thick waist. Thicker legs. All muscle. He’s not delicate anywhere except for his face.

But he is delicate.

“He was in here talking to you for a long time.” Steve touches Billy’s pendant. Holds it between his fingers. “I just. I don’t like that guy looking at you.”

Billy lips thin then twist into an ugly, pained smile. “Kinda hot you’re jealous.”

“I’m being serious. He looks at you like—” _like he wants to touch you and already has._ Steve holds onto Billy’s necklace and pulls himself closer to him.

“He’s my _boss_.” Billy says, slow. “Kind of have to acknowledge his existence.”

“Does that mean you have to flirt with him too?”

Billy stares at him and Steve has no clue what he’s doing, what he’s aiming for by bringing it up. Maybe he just wants Billy to admit it. Give him something real to hold on to. A word to cling to. An _I like you too_ to show Steve he’s not making it all up in his head.

“I get it.” Billy laughs. Tilts his head up to whisper in Steve’s ear, “you just wanna be the only one to boss me around, that it, Harrington?”

“I don’t think I said _that._ ”

“It’s all between the lines.”

Steve swallows. Billy leans back and his necklace slips from Steve’s fingers. Steve follows him to Billy’s locker.

“Maybe.” Steve says.

“Maybe, what?”

“Maybe I do. Sometimes.” Steve shrugs, face going hot.

Billy opens his locker, back to him. “So? Come on, tell me what to do.”

“Now?”

“You got anything else going on, Elmo?” Billy grins over his shoulder and Steve sort of hates him. He’s going to be peeling for the next week and Billy will make fun of him every day for it.

“Are you even gonna listen?”

“ _Maybe_.” Billy pulls out his duffle bag, sets it on the bench. “Turn around.”

Steve glances over his shoulder. Points to himself. “What? Really?”

“Yeah.”

“But I’ve seen, like, _everything_.”

Billy pushes his hair out of his eyes, glares at Steve hotly. “Spin it or lose it, Harrington.”

Steve turns. Faces the other wall of lockers and the years of his future he has no idea what to do with, but one thing has become a little clearer, scary and nerve wracking as it is.

“You could just call me Steve, you know.”

“Steve.” Billy says. There’s the rustle of Billy dropping his towel, pulling on his jeans. His shirt. “ _Steve._ Stevie.” Moans out, “King Steve.”

“Shut up.”

“Sure thing, Stevie.”

Billy’s in front of one of the sinks, his duffle bag on the other, fixing up his hair. Curls dripping down the back and soaking the collar of Billy’s white tank top. Blue jeans tight—

Steve stops.

Stares.

Can’t quite trust what he’s seeing. Half the lights have been turned off and being in the summer heat all day has his head getting all kinds of funny thoughts.

Steve comes up behind Billy slowly, eyes on Billy’s backside.

Billy goes commando. That’s a fact. That’s what Steve’s known all summer. A guy can’t wear tight jeans like Billy and not go bare underneath.

Steve could be off his rocker completely and he’d still be able to recognize panty lines when he sees them.

Up close, peaking out from Billy's jeans is something blue.

Steve sits on the lip of the sink next to Billy, winded. Hard in his jeans. _Billy’s wearing panties_.

Steve has no idea what to do with all this.

“You _actually_ stayed the whole day.” Billy says.

Steve shakes his head. Focuses. Billy’s not bringing it up so Steve won’t either. He’s learned to let Billy take the lead.

“I said I would.”

“Still.” Billy says, quietly.

Billy dries his hair off with a towel. Sprays it. Combs it with a wider tooth comb than Steve uses. He’s so serious when it comes to his hair. Steve likes watching him like this.

Billy reaches into his bag. Hesitates. The air shifts. Steve starts to fidget. After a long pause, Billy pulls out a small tube of lipstick. A dark pink. Almost red.

Steve holds his breath. Billy doesn’t look at him when he leans forward towards the mirror and applies it, painting his lips slow, smacking them afterwards. Using his thumb to clean up the lines.

Only when he’s done and puts the lipstick back in his bag does Billy look at Steve through the mirror. His eyes are hard. Daring Steve to make fun of him. Afraid Steve will.

“It’s a good color on you.” Steve says, softly. Thinks that’s what Billy needs. Some gentleness to combat all that conflict inside him.

Steve reaches out, cups Billy’s cheek to turn him. Kisses him. Just a light press. Billy gasps against him so Steve kisses him again, just as soft.

Billy grabs the back of Steve’s neck then fists his hair. Tugs him in for a harder, longer, dirtier kiss. Billy sucks on his tongue. Steve moans into his mouth.

Billy backs away. Steve let’s him go, but stays in his space, feels the tail end of his breath.

“You’re such a homo. Fuck.” Billy says.

“You got a little—” Steve licks his thumb, wipes the tiny smudge of lipstick off the corner of Billy’s mouth. Pets at his cheek, the thin skin under his eye. _All those freckles_. “You look really pretty, Billy.”

“Shut up.” Billy says without much heat. Eyes glassy. Face as red as Steve’s.

Billy pulls away. Packs his stuff up and shoves his duffle bag back into his locker. Steve wipes the slight smear of lipstick on his own lips off on the inside of his shirt.

Billy locks up. Steve helps him turn off the rest of the lights. One last walk through to make sure no one else is here.

They walk back to the camaro. The summer night air is cooler, a little more breathable. Billy’s quiet, thinking. He walks close to Steve. The back of their hands brush more than a few times.

Steve leaves the quiet alone until they’re standing by the camaro with the rest of the night ahead of them.

“I’m thinking of getting inked.” Steve says.

Billy’s eyebrows disappear under his curls. “Steve Harrington getting a tattoo? Shit. That might actually be cool.”

“Picture a tiger. A badass tiger all down my arm.”

“Nah.” Billy says. “An anchor to go with the whole Popeye look.”

Steve laughs, low. Pushes his hair back, out of his eyes. Shoves his hands into his pockets. “Go to the movies with me.”

There’s a long pause where Billy stares at him and Steve stares back, feeling dumb and brave.

“Is this.” Billy licks his lips. Looks around the parking lot—they’re the only ones here—then back at Steve. “Are you asking me out, Harrington?”

“Not really asking.”

Billy’s blue eyes are black at night, but they catch the streetlamps, the Indiana stars, turning his soft expression plush. His lips twitch up into a smile. Small. Honest.

“Okay.” Billy says. “What movie did you and the ice-cream skank see?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick post-s3 note: let's just pretend the Robin in this story is a different Robin than the one in s3.  
> [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mignardise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19082158) by [Yolo_contendere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yolo_contendere/pseuds/Yolo_contendere)




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